The wool box.


Why today? I woke up feeling ok but by the time I had eaten breakfast, washed and dressed I felt under a cloud. The LSO was rather short tempered and irritable this morning so perhaps that has affected my mood. Usually I just shrug it off but not today.

I feel that there is little genuine thanks felt for the amount I/we do for the AP, sounds are uttered but they are forced. They certainly didn’t exist for the first three years of her sojourn with us so I can only put the change down to the impending month away or is it still the threat of a care home. Who knows and I guess we never will understand what goes on in her head.

It makes me realise that the feel good factors are few and far between these days and I just get up to the same old routine day in, day out with no light on the horizon. Our lives have become so predictable and so very boring, doing the same things, going to the same places all because they need to work for the AP. We are in need of a break but I fear that nothing much will change even then unless there is a collective will to do so.

I find myself working around the obstacles that are created by the raft of appointments that the AP insists on having. These break up the days and even control when we eat, leaving little space to do the things I want to do. But what really do I want to do? Curl up in a corner and hope it all goes away? Rush off into the sunset to a desert island? Well, none of those things really, just the freedom to do what I want to do when I want to do it without having anything else getting in the way. Stupid little things such as spending a day without any interruptions sorting the wool box. I suppose that all sounds a bit selfish but I have worked all my life, enjoyed a brief and pleasant interlude of retirement that disappeared  the day the AP came to live with us and for the past four years I have watched my life slip away.

Has this wool box become like my mind? It certainly bears a resemblance to it containing much the same jumble of odds and ends. There are half finished jumpers, single balls of wool in a variety of colours and plys, new wool left gathering dust, a mix of knitting needles of all shapes and sizes jumbled in with buttons and stitch holders. There are pattern books and paper patterns stuffed in the bottom of the box too. No wonder I can never find anything. I must sort through it all and perhaps in the process will be able to clear the fog that sits permanently on the outskirts of my mind threatening to invade as it has today.

Roll on April 5th and a month of carefree existence, twenty eight days to go.