Boots, Bronchitis and a Toasty Arse...the Sunday Collection
And in late breaking news, I reallyreallyreally don’t want to go back to work tomorrow. The Dragons is feeling very flat, and partially voiceless. Several well-meaning commentators have pointed out that the Dragons is sounding very sexy at the moment.
These people clearly have a toad!kink.
My one day weekend has been, alas, short. But I achieved my overall aim of toasting my arse against the heater for the vast majority of it. Balling up tissues on my coffee table? Done. Shower avoidance and general stinkiness? Perfected. I set goals involving pancakes, and French vanilla supreme blend coffee, and the poem for J’s son. And here I am at 11pm with checks in all my boxes. I feel I particularly excelled in the pancake and coffee division. While not on my list of To-Do’s, the copious-snot-creation and lethally-volatile-sneeze departments also rate an honorable mention for productivity above and beyond the call of duty. The Bronchial Congestion and Distress Committee are currently in session. We may have a ruling as early as tomorrow.
*ignores the rumbling cough*
Of course, I have the Managing Director in town this week. Of course, it’s impossibly impractical for me to be running in the low rpms. Of course, I have to channel Buffy and just get on with it. What else is new?
Anyhoo, how has your weekends been? Happy Sundays to the behind-ees across the globe. I is jealous of your feet-being-upsies and general not having to workedness. *blows you raspberries*
Here is the poem for J’s son, who will be meeting me at the airport in Adelaide next month when I fly home to play Aunty Pdragon at his third birthday.
*tummy butterflies*
These Boots
These battered Redback boots -
I waited patiently for their arrival
in stocking feet. You know, your mother
ordered them from Overeast. Like the
mended zipper on the blue jacket,
she is always taking care of me.
(In that we are alike, my little man,
and share a thousand unsung songs).
Those brand new Redback boots -
they took an age across the Plain,
Australia Post. You see, I know so much
through the soles of my shoes. They were
an uncertain proposition. How could I
have known if they would be a fit?
(How bright the supernova of your
hand in mine upon the sidewalk).
These weathered Redback boots -
they bided time beside your neatly
paired, plastic gumboots. The worn
boards by your back door, where I pulled
them on like an alter ego. The wearing
made me brave and happy and strong.
(My elbows on my knees, your mother
called me a Hayseed and I laughed).
Those sodden Redback boots -
that day upon the pebbled beach
beneath the lighthouse. You seemed
to be gazing down the shoreline of
your years in wonderment. My heart,
it skipped some at your coltish glee
(I thought: To put aside your childish
things? I wish for you a Neverland).