Ok. I’ll be honest. None of the aforementioned happened. None of it. Upon waking with a headache, located on the right hand side of my head I cursed myself for drinking cheap red wine, alone. God was punishing me, and so to reward myself I went back to sleep, and woke at the less proud hour of 7.15am.
The dog had thrown up, there were thawed out peas on the kitchen bench, some rather salty short bread biscuits still sat on a baking tray and half a bottle of wine still in it’s paper bag in the fridge – red wine, but at least I’d remembered to take the bins out, so I mustn’t have written off last night, surely not -and what on earth had I been doing baking?
Unlike the New Zealand gentlemen that sat next to me on the 8am bus and regaled his mobile phone caller and anyone within ear shot as to why eggs don’t agree with him, I myself am a little more discreet when it comes to mobiles, and as my bag started vibrating, I left it a moment and then quietly turned away, lowered my voice and greeted my mother who wasn’t usually up before 10am – something was wrong. She wanted to know if I was feeling ok? And how was my head?…but how could she have known something was wrong, was she that good? Would I give her credit for such apt detective work?
My head was fine, I said. Some cheap red wine – but my mother said it had nothing to do with red wine, because at roughly 10pm the night before I rang my father and told him I had hit my head really, really hard on the exhaust of the stove -the fact I couldn’t remember it, was to be of some concern, but my mother said that if I hadn’t woken up, well that was when I should start to worry…yeah, let’s ponder that last remark for a moment.
Hanging up, I felt the top of my head – there was a huge lump, everything hurt, and then everything fell into place…like a rush of blood to the head (sorry Coldplay, but you did steal the phrase first).
Ok -so while cooking my dinner I bumped my head on the exhaust, but still managed to finish my omelette and indulge in some goat’s cheese. The receipt in my pocket confirmed that I had bought a bottle of wine just before 9.30pm, the phone number written on the back of said receipt didn’t conjure up any memories, but that was to be expected given where I purchased the wine from. The pea’s now made sense, an obvious attempt to stop any sort of swelling, but the baking…it wasn’t until I got to work that I realised in an attempt to stay awake after a head trauma I’d washed the bins out, tried to make short bread, done two loads of laundry and started to make my way through the Star Wars Trilogy, and had finally logged off my computer at 2am, and that must explain why I had so many new MySpace friends.
I call these the missing hours and also ironically the most productive hours of my last 3 months. I’m not sure why a head injury drove me to become a domestic goddess, but when I look at ladies like Nigella and Martha Stewart and see that blank look in the their eyes, perhaps it will cause me to stop and think – have they suffered a head trauma? Is that the only way to balance work, rest and play – and more importantly when will the twitch in my left eye stop…people have started staring.