This afternoon, clearing the garden, as my thumb squidged into a particularly mouldy apple, I pondered life, society and the world; for there is nothing like being knuckle-deep in putrefied, maggoty apple flesh for focusing ones thoughts elsewhere. I thought about how bad apples, like rotten people seem to remain hidden until it’s too late, and how rare the good-looking apples seem to be and how most of them seem to be rotting from the inside out anyway. Equally true though, almost all apples have some useful matter to them once the nasty bits have been stripped away. Or maybe it’s just that the shiny fresh ones are collected and the undesirables are left to rot. So that’s apples. There is a chance I may have been seeing everything in a very pessimistic manner, but when push comes to shove it’s all pies anyway.
I also reflected on the best bits of my holidays. Maybe it was cleaning 48 square metres of inch thick muddy debris from the bottom of a pool while dressed like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. Or maybe getting repeatedly electrocuted by my sewing machine, or sewing into my finger or the sunburn. Or that ear infection, or the buildingworks, or putting up with my family. Or maybe, just maybe it was That F*cking Cat. It was like a meowing metronome – all day, all night and unbelievably loud! But apart from that it was lovely break. Although 7 weeks would be considered a bit excessive by most!
And now upon my return we are bundling my brother off to uni, an event I find myself wholly unprepared for despite all my uni experiences. It means I am now old. I am the old one, and my brother is the fresher. All that is left to me is the mystery of employment, mortgages and savings accounts. And while I muse over just what exactly a “tax return” is, people are discussing behind my back about how maybe I should get my eggs frozen, join a dating agency, and start a pension. Since when was it “21 – next step death”?! And since when is a partner mandatory? People look at me like a leper. “Your mother was married at 22… No pressure.” Agh, it drives me nuts, especially as the only thing you can do in response is shrug and smile and say “oh well” and pretend that a man is at the top of your to-do list and yes of course they’re invited to the wedding. On the upside it means that they take it upon themselves to find suitable partners for you, saving a lot of legwork.
The question is, how long have you got before the inevitable occurs and you are left to rot?