[m i a o w] the cat

It’s 5.08am. I finally get up after lying in the dark willing myself back to sleep. I boil the kettle and make hot lemon and honey drink. I think “Toast.” I haul out the sourdough olive bread we bought yesterday on our jaunt to pick up an infamous lawn roller at the former family home. It was not sliced (the bread, not the lawn roller), and I hack away at it, become more and more irrationally incensed. M has cut the loaf in the way that drives me insane. He’s cut it longways. Despite the fact that our toaster is a stupifyingly normal two-tiny-slices-only op-shop job. So when I’ve finally carved off a slice, leaving the loaf in topological turmoil, I have to CUT THE SLICE IN HALF in order to stuff it in the toaster. Where it burns.

M staggers out. Goes to the loo. Comes back, and suggests helpfully that next time I can’t sleep and get up in the middle of the night to make toast, maybe I could refrain from burning it so the whole Trailer doesn’t reek?

“Maybe next time you start cutting a loaf, you can cut it more in keeping with the shape of our toaster and less like you wish you were back in your Collingwood cafe lifestyle?” I am unable to shut my mouth, due to my outrage that I’d managed to suppress my annoyance the whole time he was wafting around me in a state that said he was going to fall instantly back to sleep as soon as he climbed back into the land of Visco-Elastic.

Sure enough.

“I’m going back to bed,” he pouts, like I’ve just taken a pin to the balloon of his masculinity, daring to question his bread slicing skils. Gah.