‘Tis the season of spiders, when I find myself trapped in intricate webs, both indoors and outdoors, stumbling through invisible creations.
But the spiders don’t seem discouraged by my constant destruction. What I demolish in the morning is often rebuilt by the afternoon, patiently waiting for me to walk straight into it once again. When my sons were still around, their constant movement kept the main pathways free from cobwebs, even during peak spider season. Now it feels like I’m losing the battle – eventually, I’ll be completely cocooned.
Elsewhere, adjustments are still being made. During lunchtime, I enter the kitchen with cobwebs entangled in my hair, only to discover the table covered in shopping bags. I peer into one bag as my wife walks in with two more.
“Thanks for your assistance,” she says.
“Did you buy a chicken?” I ask.
“You’re already looking in the bag,” she replies. “Why do you ask that?”
“Well, when do you think we’ll have a chance to eat a chicken together?”
“It’s a very small chicken,” she remarks.
“So, like, we split it in half?” I suggest.
My wife lets go of the two bags in her hands and assumes an accusatory stance, hands on hips.
“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “We’re entering uncharted territory.”
“Because I don’t know how many more chicken conversations I can handle.”
“Fine,” I relent.
“Just go back to your office now,” she orders. “I can’t have you in here at the moment.”
I turn around, exit the kitchen, and stride across the lawn. Right before I open my mouth to shout something cutting, I walk straight into a mouthful of spider’s web.
It hasn’t been that long since our three adult sons flew the nest – precisely six days, according to my count – but it’s safe to say I’m not handling it well.
The cat isn’t either. It stands by the edge of the bathtub while I’m trying to complete the crossword, howling directly into my face. Over the years, I made a conscious effort not to become the cat’s go-to person for everything, but now it has no one else to turn to.
“I’m sorry your little pals have left,” I say. “Never to return.”
“Miaow,” replies the cat.
“You’re really ruining this for me.”
Of course, our sons do come back, usually without warning, since they all have spare keys. The oldest arrives late at night after missing the last train to his side of London. The youngest one shows up in the early evening to collect the perishable food I saved from his broken fridge the day before, after he texted me from work seeking assistance.
Turns out he accidentally tripped an isolator switch hidden in a cupboard while putting away a pan.
“You put away a pan?” I ask. “How long has this been going on?”
“Anyway,” he says, “see ya.”
“When?” my wife asks. “Can you be more specific?”
The next morning, the middle one comes over to get some work done since his flat still lacks wifi. When the cat hears his voice, it darts across the lawn and through the door, leaping into his arms.
“Did you miss me?” the middle one asks.
“He certainly did,” I say. “I might make some coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“There’s no more milk,” he points out, holding up his brimming cup.
At least my wife keeps herself occupied with plans: she wants new cupboards in one room and old shelves removed from another. She has donated dozens of children’s books to a charity shop and packed away many more in boxes. She presents me with a pile of clothes – my clothes – and tells me to decide whether to keep them or discard them. She shows me samples of curtain fabric, floor paint, and bathroom tiles.
“So we’re redoing the tiles?” I inquire.
“That’s phase two,” she informs me.
Denial of responsibility! Vigour Times is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
