The Pillow Book of Prudence . . . Part Nine

In this last week of July, with only 9 weeks and three days to daylight saving and 36 days to the first day of Spring, one learns that it is a week of observations, inanities and vanities.

One learns that by placing a completely inane statement on a social network about what one should do with one’s day, that one invites the Fates to decide for one.  In the case of myself, the Fates decided I should wear my most favourite shoes.  They are pale turquoise JP Tod’s moccasins with rubber stops on the soles.  Vanity of course, because on that day I liked turquoise.  Today I think it is a heartless colour although better than black.

The shoes are perfect for driving vehicles from one’s primary destination to another place, so that one’s foot doesn’t slip off the controls, but inadequate when one spins quickly on a staircase, having forgotten something.  Those unique little stops that cushion one’s aging feet, grip the carpet with the tenacity of an octopus’s tentacles, causing the foot to stay facing in one direction while the ligaments and ankle swivel to snapping point in the other.  One then falls from the second step to the ground landing on left wrist, left shoulder and left buttock.

This also gives one an occasion to gnash one’s teeth, wail with pain and throw said shoe against wall.  Fortunately being suede and soft there are no marks.  Contact with help agencies becomes one’s primary concern as one is alone in the house.  Husband is feeding sheep and pregnancy-testing the mothers of next year’s wool-bearers.  Being near to the door through which stands one’s vehicle, one slides on one’s buttocks through the door to transportation, levers oneself up, opens the vehicle door, gets the telephonic device which always resides in the glove box, hops back to the carpet floor, subsides onto floor weeping and phones Son.  He arrives and takes charge and all is well that can end well.

One now observes that vanity should not determine one’s dress code for the day.  That inane comments implying boredom in one’s day invite a disaster.  One also observes as one wends one’s shaky way on crutches past the tubs of bulbs, that fritillaria are brave enough to peek green spikes above the soil, that the Erlicheer daffodils are fragrantly in bloom, that the freesia buds are tumescent, and that the Hope tree is counting the days to Spring.