So, call me suspicious but when the normal pattern isn’t followed I DO become suspicious.
You see, the ‘normal’ morning pattern for me is to be toddling around the place when Richard comes down. Sometimes, I’m sitting at the kitchen table on the laptop. Sometimes I’m splashing water around in the sink, pretending to be washing stuff. Richard shuffles through the door and says, ‘hello, babe, you OK?’
How sweet, you might think, what a lovely bloke, until I tell you that he’s talking to Chea, the cat. Babe responds with a kitty trill and receives a tickle between the ears. (She’d also receive a kitty treat if I hadn’t banned him from giving her treats. She almost broke the scales at the vets when she had her booster last month). I, meanwhile, tap away on the laptop or continue splashing water.
Sometimes we grunt at each other. These days that passes for, ‘good morning light of my life, how are you on this fine morning?’
This morning the ‘normal’ pattern wasn’t followed, even Chea didn’t get her tickle between the ears. I was at the sink, actually washing his wine glass that he’d left from the night before.
He sidled up to me and said, ‘could you do me a favour?’
Now, this comment, linked to the fact that I never receive the first words out of his mouth of a morning, coupled with the fact that he was still in his dressing gown, concerned me slightly.
‘Depends what it is,’ I said, looking him up and down.
‘Could you look in my ear and tell me if there’s anything in it? It’s full of wax.’
‘If it’s full of wax it’s full. If it’s full – by the very meaning of the word – you can’t have anything else in it.’ Cleaver hey?
‘You know what I mean,’ he said, tugging at his earlobe.
I took a glance at his ear. ‘I can’t see anything. Go and fetch a torch.’
With torch in hand I peered into a hairy orifice.
‘Well, what is it?’ he said.
I was seriously tempted to tell him that he had a bug in it and that it would work its way to his brain (hard journey) and that he would walk in circles for the rest of his life. (I’d once seen this on a wildlife documentary when it had happened to a poor wildebeast) but I didn’t.
‘Wax, just wax, why do you let them get to this stage?’
‘What!’ he shouted. ‘I can’t hear you.’
I made him sit at the table, with his head tilted, and reached for the olive oil – I might add my super-duper extra, extra, extra virgin olive oil. I tipped some into a teaspoon and trickled it into his ear. Then I massaged it – quite hard – because it pleased me to do so.
‘There you go, we’ll put oil in every day till it softens and then we’ll take it from there.’ I reckon I can probably find some kind of suction device, a bit like a sink plunger, and have a go with that. That’ll soon get Mr Naughty Ear Wax out! I tell you. My life rocks.
He stood up and walked away, with his little head still on the side, in the search for a bit of cotton wool to stop the oil leaking out. I put my precious olive oil back in the rack and then, realised, as my precious olive oil was already there, that I’d actually filled his ear with an extremely cheap cooking oil.
Never mind, as long as he doesn’t sit with that side of his head next to the wood burner tonight he’ll be OK. Wouldn’t want him to fry his brain . . . would I?
I’m now going to take this opportunity to wish all my readers/followers/friends/those who only read my blog posts because they think I am crazy/sick/mental blah, blah, blah, A MERRY, MERRY CHRISTMAS. I wish you peace, happiness and love, whether that comes from making new memories or reliving old ones. I’ll be having a quiet Christmas with Richard – and Richard will be having an even quieter one – because he has wax in his ears and cannot hear!
Bless you all xxx