Look Good In My Steel Machine

My feet danced a lazy two step, accelerator and clutch, as I inched my way along Griffith Avenue this morning. 1km in 17 minutes. I should measure in centimetres. I should get the fucking bus. It was a fitting crawl towards what I knew would be a slow day. I spent my morning rephrasing the redesigned forms so that they no longer referred directly to the department's lettered and numbered forms as their procedures and processes are currently under review, with no provision made for the provisional. It made as much sense to me as it does to you. I ate a joyless lunch and then I went back to passive-aggressive pencil pushing. And here you find me, poking holes in my afternoon until the light falls and I can climb back into the car.

I tuned out for those 17 minutes on Griffith Avenue this morning. I listened to the Redneck Manifesto's Cut your Heart off from your Head and threaded my arms through the wheel, like sticks shoved through spokes. Ten to two position be damned! It's fine for the mid afternoon, but this was early fucking morning. Knees akimbo and happy out, I sang along to the wordless music. I like sitting with my legs spread in the car, parting them to push the pedals. It's liberating. In company, I keep them crossed at knee and ankle, afraid to look inelegant (or fat). This morning I sat there, all thigh in a dowdy buttoned tea dress. And I felt sexy. Black tights hid the dimples that dent my flanks and a smile creased my cheeks. A job is a job is a job. They pay me. I waved to the lollipop lady and rock n' rolled on in my Mitsubishi Carisma.

This Little Piggy

My brother had swine 'flu some weeks back and I joked about calling down to Kildare to lick his cutlery. I fancied a few weeks off work. I had romantic notions of staying at home with Andrew, snug on the couch with the Gilmore Girls and a touch of the sniffles. Then I remembered the 'flu I caught last February, the subsequent chest and sinus infection, the antibiotics, and the subsequent yeast infection. The Gilmores are a lot less fun with fever and a dose of galloping gee-rot. So I asked my brother if there was anything I could do for him, knowing he'd say no, and then left him to rot. Or recover. Whatever. He's fine.

I wish I'd sent a fruit basket.

On Wednesday morning I tipped along to see nurse Margaret for my biannual blood tests. "Dr. Murphy!" she hollered. Not to greet me, but to alert her backup. She sighed at me, and smiled with the kind of patience I reserve for when I catch small children chewing crayons. I'm her most difficult patient. I know this because she has told me so, numerous times. I'm calm and compliant, but I have deep veins. I think Margaret thinks I've done this on purpose. Once Dr. Murphy had done Margaret's dirty work and drawn enough blood, I tried to placate her with smalltalk about H1N1, except that I called it something else and further fuelled her suspicions that I was trying to show her up as a Bad Nurse. I asked about the vaccine and she told me that I couldn't have it. "After Christmas" she said, in a placatory tone. She'd have patted me on the back but she doesn't like to touch me. Happy to have avoided further mutilation, I made a joke about laying off the swines this side of Stephen's Day. Hardy har har.

By 5pm I was burning up with a fever. I'm not saying I blame her, like. I'm just saying.

I arrived home in tears and Andrew put me to bed. He calmed me down, warmed me up, undressed me and stuffed me into some flannel pyjamas. I spent the night crying and shivering. I spent Thursday and Friday night crying and shivering too. He spent them mopping my brow, holding my hand, making me meals I pretended to eat. The fever broke on Saturday, and I celebrated with a new pair of pyjamas and a hacking cough. He blowdried and ironed my hair. On Sunday, he took me to Farmleigh and we had a cup of tea. I went back to bed again when we got home. I stayed there on Monday. He snuggled in beside me, my Nurse Ratched, visibly relieved to see me on the mend.

And he asked me to marry him.