Oh, really me, as Russell used to say. I so messed up the day. All had been going so well. I’d remembered everything, packed up the car the night before and added a few extra bits this morning.
I think it was the eggs that tipped the balance. I’d boxed up (actually flower potted up, I’ve run out of egg boxes) five and a half dozen eggs and a friend kindly said she’d pick them all up and distribute them as promised. But we have two friends with the same first name and she tried to give them to the wrong one – that is, I knew that one has her own chickens now, so doesn’t want my eggs, so she gave them to someone else. So never mind, I had some spare that I remembered to drop off this morning (and she’d not have minded anyway, of course) But something always has to give, innit.
The journey had gone really well until we got to Stratford, where the Olympic park was. The same thing happened as the last time I drove that way: the satnav was not clear. It said turn left and there were two lefts and I suppose it should have been second left, because left was not right, nor even correct. And when I finally got back on the road, in Tower Hamlets, it tried to send me down a road that wasn’t there and then wanted me to go where it’s recently been pedestrianised. So I felt pretty stressed. Stopped at a traffic light, I felt peculiar. You know when you’re stationary and another vehicle moves and you have the sensation of rolling backwards? I had that, but nothing was moving. It was very odd and I had it every time I stopped. I can only think it was anxiety. But then, finally, I started to get directions I recognised, such as Old Street, and it was fine. I parked on the road, as permitted free on Sundays, and turned to pick up my handbag.
My handbag was 100 miles away. I hadn’t got it. That meant I hadn’t got the keys. All was not lost, I rang the bell of the upstairs tenants, who are holding a key while the flat is empty. They were out. Nothing daunted, I set off for the agents, leaving Wink to relax by the canal. The agents are shut on Sunday (I’m sure they used not to be, but everything is different nowadays). I texted the upstairs tenants and they rang me back from the museum they’d booked to visit.
Best. Tenants. Ever. Lovely, lovely couple, they offered to go and defrost the freezer themselves. I’d got a couple of backup plans, but they were both desperate ones. So I accepted, with thanks. So kind of them. Rather than stroll down Upper Street and decide where to go for lunch, we dived in to the (very good) place next door, which does a Jazz Brunch on a Sunday. Slightly surprised that our fried chicken buttermilk pancake was drizzled with syrup, but it was tasty. And the guitarist was good.
I drove home again. The satnav told me that there was a delay of 53 minutes on the route but a redirected route would save me 41 of those minutes. Would I like to be redirected? Oh yes I would. So we had the tedious A12 route instead of the beastly M11, a road that no one likes. We were home by 4 o’clock and I tried to have a nap, but didn’t quite manage it. So Tim made me a cup of tea and I made cheese soufflé for dinner and I will go to bed early, still haunted by my utter stupidity.
“It’ll be our secret,” said Wink, kindly. “Eh, I’ve already told Facebook, it’s gone straight on the internet,” I said. I do stupid things, I own them. I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not, even if it’s embarrassing. It doesn’t matter, unless it does to myself and I’m long over that.