Oy what a difference a pizza at Mozza makes. Crumpled by the day, the MJ memorial, the son's travails, the tearful daughter, the husband's grump, the friends away, the unwitting mean-ness of Twitter friends, the sadness of friend's departure for France (Marcus, we loved having you) and impending Norway-ness at the end of the week, I am restored by good food and good husband chat. Funny isn't it, how you live in the same house, weather the same storms, feel sad about the same things, ooh over the same beanstalk tomato plants, play dog-pile with the same dalmatians, drive around in the same orange city at twilight and yet you never connect? Child One is thankfully not with swine flu (and yet each moment I crouch on this hard stone stoop I remember how he cracked my coccyx during childbirth and I still feel it nineteen years later - how IS that possible?) and having to ignore the heavily-kohled eyes of Child two (it is 2009 afterall, and one shouldn't really say anything, yes?, in the hopes that the trend will be jettisoned, however pretty she looks). Maharishi is just plain dull. The Tour de France is on and no-one is allowed to speak not even in whispered tones. My first dalmatian is still incontinent. My second still brings home Barbie dolls, Frog toys, teddy bears from God Knows Where, the office is still untidy and I'm still not packed for Norway on Saturday. There are still presents to buy, laundry to do, rats in the hedges, the vaccuum cleaner to pick up from Dyson service. My friends are still away in Paris, Nantucket, South Carolina, Maine. We drank some Verdicchio at dinner. Ate green beans with hazlenuts and onions, toasted bread with garlic, burrata with parsley pesto and roasted tomatoes on the vine. All is good. For now at least.
And, if I'm honest, I still wake up every morning wondering what I have done of use to the world. And there it is. Starkly, I suppose.