October 16, 2010


He didn't come through until half past but I could hear him, the rattle of plastic on plastic and the exposed floor boards. Hear his voice raising and falling in pitch as he copied and created in role play. As usual I can't get up when I first wake, the comfort feels to precious to move on from. When he brought buzz, woody and jessie through I was happy to see them all. He looked healthy and happy if maybe a little unsure because my bed was in the living room.

Decorating always brings back memories of my parents home improvements in all the houses we lived in. Watching my dads extensive sanding, scrubbing and sweeping in preperation to turn each council house, flat and rural shack into a fitting setting for us who had been exciled from society for being working class and educated. His pain staking cutting in, and choice of colours that usually looked pretty much the same to me. Sometimes he would ask me if I thought something needed another coat or let me make the decision about something he was unsure of, then glady repaint a wall so full faith that I would be right.

Over the years his enthusiasm, creativity and perfectionism dried up. The way he barated my mother about a rubed down skirting board or the drips in a glossed door changed. He gave in easier and flounched of to the pub instead of staying up all night sorting something she hadn't gotten right. Letting her have a room back when it once she would of had days or weeks to wait before she could use it. He stopped completly years ago and now does nothing.

It's hard work and there is generally plenty of hard work anyway.