I listen to the endless stream of bickering, screaming whinging antagonism and retaliation coming from the garden, the same as its been, with brief periods of respite in between, for days, weeks, months... I stir the soup and I fantasise about being at a Metallica gig, or something similar. Somewhere where the drums and the base and the angry lyrics drown out all other noise, all thought, and you just feel it.
I look at the electric mixer in my hand, and turn it up to five.
The noise of my children through the open garden dims, and the mixer vibrates against the side of the pot, making a mechanical, grinding noise.
It'll have to do.
I mix the soup longer than is necessary.
1 comment:
I don't recognise that feeling. Oh no. Mmm. I sat and hid in a book upstairs until one of the cries sounded like it actually needed attention.
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