Everything’s connected, and nothing really matters
On not getting my tarot read and dying soon, apparently
Friday. You’ll be dying soon, my daughter says nonchalantly over breakfast. She’s just asked me what age I’m turning next week.
Two hours later in an unrelated incident, the glass egg timer I was gifted a few birthdays ago falls from the mantlepiece – seemingly unprovoked. We hear the crack and shatter of glass against tile. My husband will later crouch, firmly telling the children to stay downstairs, and vacuum the destruction of fine yellow sand and glass from the spare room rug.
*****
Saturday, and I’m supposed to be having my tarot read with friends at a bar in the city. It’s 3.30pm when I message to say I’m sorry, I’m not going to make it: I use the phrase ‘burnt out’ because I am.
While ‘not at tarot’, I put on pyjamas, and the television. I still don’t know how to use the remote properly so watch whatever comes up first. The Hairy Bikers. Wow. Mad they’re still going, I think. Mum and I used to watch The Hairy Bikers together, back when I used to hang upside down on the sofa to watch TV. Mum loved cooking shows – Delia, Jamie, MasterChef, The Hairy Bikers. Jamie Oliver once scribbled mum a note on request of my aunt who’d gone to his book launch or something. She carried that note everywhere folded down inside the back pocket of her handbag. I remember our police liaison officer handing it back to me sealed inside a plastic zip lock bag. I leave The Hairy Bikers playing in the background and do some work.
*****
Sunday, we’re in the car driving to Bristol when my husband says, it was the building work. Next door, all that drilling. And I understand immediately that he’s figured out how the egg timer fell – seemingly unprovoked – from the mantlepiece and smashed all over the floor. We both nod.
Later, while going to the loo I check Instagram. Dave Myers wife has logged onto his Instagram page. I don’t even follow Dave, I think. Thank you all for your love and kindness at this difficult time it reads.