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My daughter is very keen to do everything herself. Yesterday we were going out in the garden to play with the dog and she wanted to put on her wellies by herself. She got them on the wrong feet though and I had to tell her to try again. But I had very clear memories of putting wellies on and not being able to work out which one went on which foot. They basically looked the same, right? I was 28 years old.
I wasn’t. I was about 3 or 4 or something. But I remember wondering how anyone could ever work out the secret of the which boot goes on which foot conundrum. Jimmy Cricket did it, of course, by writing L and R on each boot. But then he still got them on the wrong feet, because he didn’t know left from right. It took me ages to work that out too. I couldn’t work out how to remember at all. I was 28 years old.
I wasn’t, but I was still about 7 or 8 and finding that confusing.
But the boots thing was a real puzzler. I could tell when they were on the wrong feet, but couldn’t distinguish why one belonged on one foot. I was 28 years old. Even though I just said I was 3 or 4.
My daughter has inherited the same stupidity.
But then I learned that the boot followed the contours of the foot it was going on (when I was 28 years old). It was obvious really. I don’t know how I’d missed that.
This morning I was thinking about this as I put on my wellies and how crazy it was that kids couldn’t tell the difference. Then I looked down and realised I had put my boots on the wrong feet. Not even on purpose. Just through not concentrating. I was 28 years old.
I wasn’t. I was 50. That’s much worse. And not amusing as it suggests dementia.
But inherited boot misidentification syndrome aside, my daughter is a bright and determined girl. Tonight at bedtime there was a picture of a watering can in a book she was reading and she recalled how the other day Wolfie had grabbed a watering can and run around with it in her mouth. Phoebe said she’d tried to chase her, but she was too fast. “It was funny,†I said. “I was laughing,†remembered Phoebe and then did a big laugh demonstrating how she had laughed. It was so interesting to see the ability to tell a story and relive a memory developing. My daughter is 28 years old. My other one. That I don’t talk about.
That joke would work if only I had lost my virginity before I was 28 years old.
Tonight I came home alone. There is furniture in some of the rooms now and we should be able to move in together in the next few days. But for now, it’s just me, sleeping in the room above the garage. I carried on tidying up in the kitchen and trying to locate all the stuff. I still haven’t found the box containing my bottles of whiskey, which I am very upset about. I am sure I will find them eventually.
The kitchen is still a mess and I knocked off some cups and glasses that were on the table. Remarkably only one of them broke, but it was one of my nice glass cappuccino glasses. I was sad to see it go. Sadder still that it had actually made it to the new house, sat in a box for two months and then found its way back into the light, only to be smashed to smithereens before it could be used again. So close cappuccino glass. Sorry to lose you. The rest of the drinking vessels will always remember you.
The ones that I don't just throw away.
Oh yeah, some of you are on the way out. You should have jumped before you were pushed.
