I have presents. I have pistachio 1000 count sheets, JB Hi Fi voucher, journal, purse, notebook, article cut out of newspaper and a birthday card. These are lovely things. I have been admiring my new sheets by rubbing my face on them for about half an hour now. I am going to take them to the laundromat and have them washed tomorrow (can not wash at home due to rain). When I turned 30 I rid myself of all sheets that were not Egyptian cotton or had a thread count of 350 or less. I require high quality linens. There is no point in having a bed if it is not lovely. I would rather sleep in a swag outside next to the bin than have inferior sheets. Goodness, that sounded a little mad.
I had wanted to go to a posh restaurant for my birthday dinner after last year's disasterous non-event for my 30th. [In brief: I spent the weekend of my 30th birthday clearing Artboys' remaining things out of the garage at my old house. My mother handed me my present from the back of a ute where she was standing waist deep in stuff and said happy birthday. I sobbed so hard driving all the way to the new house in the city that I had to keep pulling off the highway; Artboy's things rattled in the boot everytime I turned a corner.] I dedicated quite some time to researching one within comfortable walking distance from where my mother and her partner are staying this weekend. When I went to book a table I discovered that the restaurant is closed for all of January so I settled on somewhere familiar and exactly half way between my house and mother's temporary nest.
After a feast with champagne and then a bottle of wine (a record for dinner with Mother, her partner and my brother) we walked out into the rain on Enmore Rd. At the corner of London St outside The Sultan's Table my mother tentatively put her hand on my arm, just lightly, for half a second. She withdrew her hand but then did it again leaving her hand there longer this time. I don't remember the last time my mother touched me.
I had wanted to go to a posh restaurant for my birthday dinner after last year's disasterous non-event for my 30th. [In brief: I spent the weekend of my 30th birthday clearing Artboys' remaining things out of the garage at my old house. My mother handed me my present from the back of a ute where she was standing waist deep in stuff and said happy birthday. I sobbed so hard driving all the way to the new house in the city that I had to keep pulling off the highway; Artboy's things rattled in the boot everytime I turned a corner.] I dedicated quite some time to researching one within comfortable walking distance from where my mother and her partner are staying this weekend. When I went to book a table I discovered that the restaurant is closed for all of January so I settled on somewhere familiar and exactly half way between my house and mother's temporary nest.
After a feast with champagne and then a bottle of wine (a record for dinner with Mother, her partner and my brother) we walked out into the rain on Enmore Rd. At the corner of London St outside The Sultan's Table my mother tentatively put her hand on my arm, just lightly, for half a second. She withdrew her hand but then did it again leaving her hand there longer this time. I don't remember the last time my mother touched me.
Comments