Hoovering Dust Bunnies
It has been a weird week. It really has. Not only did everything that could happen in British politics happen in British politics, but nothing happened here at home: the eye of the storm has been the calm found in the cyclone action of my Dyson.
I have been on holiday at home for a week, with the rolling news functioning as kind of info-muzak as I have wound down from the usual commitments.
Between the government melting down and there being no necessity to set an alarm, it has been an odd week of inertia and stasis.
So, what did I do?
Monday’s task was culling dust-bunnies. They had been tormenting me for months – not that I could see them: I knew they were there. Nature may well abhor vacuums, and indeed, the dust had done its best to create a dust-galaxy ex nihilo. But the dust bunnies are now gone, abhorring vacuums from inside of one.
Tuesday’s task? I’ve forgotten already. (I ask my son for clarification. He said, “I don’t keep track of days.”)
Wednesday we did shopping-for-things-we-actually-need and I cleaned my towel-rail-radiator. Rock and roll.
Thursday I fell asleep with my face in a book at Lollipop Land softplay. All good.
Today involved a lot of watching of tennis, watching of football and eating of pizza. And moving things around.
If my brain hadn’t slipped so readily into holiday mode, I figure I might have had some interesting things to think about the state of the nation/nations and various political unions and things – but things are so fluxional, I can’t get a handle on it.
It’s at this point that I need to turn the vacuum/dust bunny thing into a metaphor for Brexit.
But I’m on holiday.