298. Normal people (5)

 I am really bored. Serious stuff, boredom one calls ennui. Yet I have tons to do to keep myself occupied: piles of interesting pieces of writing to mark, worksheets to type up, tests to devise and fun speaking games to invent to keep teenagers awake in my classes, let alone active and interested. I have also tons to do at home. Cleaning, washing, gardening, cooking, painting, sanding and picture framing. I have shopping to do too. I also have a deck of tarot cards gathering dust on my desk.

'Mum!' Baby says, taking a picture of the gleaming empty shells in the fridge. 'This is desperately empty! No other fridge in the western world is like that! In fact even in developing countries fridges dont look like ours.'

'I have finally discovered the trick to keep a fridge clean. Nothing to do with cleaning it regularly. Just keep it empty.'

As I say so I place a red tomato in the center of the central shelf. Next to it a green pepper.

'Come and take an other picture!' I shout at Baby. 'This is so interesting. Cold white light on clean glass shelves. A spot of green and a splash of red.'

I step back to admire the effect.

'Mum? You're going nuts.'

'Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring: Marilyn Monroe. ... Do you know who Marylin Monroe was?' I may as well throw in a bit a educational content.'

'What? That mum at the school gates? Back when I was in Year 1?'

Add despair to boredom. Despair about having clearly not thrown in enough educational content. When Baby was in Year 1 there was a mum who stood out amongst all the other mums and turned every single head - male and female and child alike. I can still picture her. She was very tall and wore high heels that made her tower over everyone. She wore white pleated skirts that twirled and billowed as she marched up and down the corridors. Her top invariably fitted white blouses, just the exact number of buttons left undone to reveal a generous bosom. That already was a sight even in this environment where everyone competed about their appearance. But that was her body and atop this imposing body sat her head: a full mouth painted in bright cherry red lipstick, eyes painted in somber shades and contrasting marvellously a huge head of very blonde very curly and very fluffy hair. And the way she crossed the large hall as if she owned the place, tall, big and the head so big, so bright. She looked down on everybody - not contemptuous, just tall and striking. She seemed to always be in the midst of shooting a difficult scene, all of us other mums mere technicians wearing blue overalls and dishevelled hair. I would sit and wait for Baby and look at her, making up all sort of stories about her. Who was she? Why was she like this? Was she American? Did she want to become and actress? Was she wearing a wig? Etc.

'No. The real Marylin Monroe. American actress.'

As I start what can only sound as a lesson about this cinema icon Baby leaves the room, pointing at the fridge.

'Mum. I've got a brilliant idea. Go out in your little pink car, drive to the supermarket and buy FOOD. Thank you.'

And she disappears upstairs. I start searching for the car keys and decide I will deal with my ennui later. Plenty of time for that.