'get ready with me'

The cat wakes me at 4:23am with her tragic diva-level mews. I tell her no, because 4:50am has been fine for the past few weeks as I can placate her with some cuddles and strokes from a dead arm hanging over the side of the bed as she bashes herself against the teal velvet, or plucks at it with her claws to get my attention — and if that doesn’t work, she’ll leap onto me/my pillow and yelp in my face — before I let her out at 5am when the sun is high enough. 4:23 is outrageous.

I told my family at the pub last night how much I love her. How ‘there was this time, recently, when she snuggled up with me under the duvet with me as she does most nights and I almost always offer her a hand, right? She can bite it or push against it or rest on it, I don’t care. Well, this time she put her chin on it, fully, I felt the whole weight of her face — and then I felt her paw, just one paw, come up and onto my wrist. I peeked under the duvet and wow, she looked so calm and happy and she was holding me in place, y’know?’

I doze for a while somehow, before stumbling through to the patio doors at 5:13am and letting her out. The little zingy noise she makes tells me she approves, and appreciates me. I flop back into bed and have an incredibly intense dream about nearly missing a flight with my family; fortunately a gaggle of empathetic airport staff put me in their car with all my luggage (and cat) then screech through twilight traffic to get me right onto the runway. One of my carry-ons is a large paper Bag For Life, full of smelly washed kale. When I board the plane my sister is waiting for me, which is the weirdest part.

My 6am alarm coincides with a task in my calendar: Wash Hair. My hairdresser of many years is currently fully booked until July, and I can’t afford him right now anyway. I’ve taken a recommendation from a local women’s WhatsApp group and am paying £30 cash to have my hair trimmed later on this morning by a lovely woman who happens to live just down the road — and right behind the spenny salon. I have to wash my hair myself and then she’ll wet it later, which is fine by me.

I wander into my living room naked to lock the patio doors now my girlie is inside — once again, forgetting I recently invested in an indoor camera. I’ll send another hilarious screenshot to my (fully consenting, and female) friends later. I have been pondering a lot lately what a true shame it is that nobody is enjoying my body with me, because it really is marvellous and I’m more comfortable and confident in the (thick) skin of it than ever before. But then I remember I can enjoy it and that’s the really important thing after all — and ponder within the ponder (ponder-some, squared) if the reason I feel this positive and radiant lately is because nobody else is getting a look in. There’s a lot to unpack here and I don’t have time — I’m already anticipating I’ll be late.

The We’re Here To Help podcast soundtracks my shower and I feel grateful once again that they brought their show over to YouTube, as those guys were my only real sacrifice when I finally stepped away from Spotify. Jake Johnson really is Nick Miller, just a little older and wiser.

I start a new job in June. That’s the reason for the haircut. And the brow tint/lash lift I’ve booked for tomorrow. It’s perfect timing really, because it means when I actually start at the office my hair will have settled and the tints/lifts will have softened so it’ll all look very calm and natural — not too try-hard. I’ll be working for a charity as well, so I don’t want to seem too ‘glam’. I’ll hopefully learn on the job how to strike the perfect balance of ‘she’s got style and her act is totally together, we can trust her with our cash’ and ‘she’s so hard-working and very down to earth, let’s help her with some funding’.

I put a bath mat on the floor of my bedroom, in front of my full-length mirror. I rub thrush cream that isn’t that kind of thrush cream into the sole of one foot and between toes of both. I think to myself, ‘when this heals, I can get a pedicure’. I don’t know if it actually prohibits me medically or if the beauty therapists who charge £52 for bathing/scraping/painting have any issue with a bit of discoloured flaking — the issue is all mine.

I adorn myself with the usual silver suspects — the claddagh, the signet, the herkimer diamond, all those quirkily-shaped studs, the slim hoops I’ve been wearing consistently for three years at least — but today I mix in a particular pendant and battered little ring, both of which I made myself. I smile at them in the mirror.

I’m late for Writing Hour, as I knew I would be. I don’t blame the cat this time.

We all hear and feel the vibrations of the upstairs dweller’s alarm. It goes on for a good while. Long enough for me to think, they must be away. Surely nobody could sleep through those vibes for more than 8 minutes? I wonder how long it’s programmed to go on for*. Eventually I accept it, and let the noise buzz between my ears as I type. The sound of all of us typing is a good antidote. I’m reminded of how thin my own walls and ceilings are, and try not to wonder what my neighbours above and on all sides — Charles, Ben, Nina, John, Rach — have heard, at one time or another. I am surprised to find my biggest concern is them hearing the cat’s 4am mews, because I’d hate for them to think I’m a neglectful mum.

I just opened a new tab to book a haircut at the salon, two days before my birthday. Another excuse for a treat. My hairline is receding despite all the oils I rub and pills I pop, but I tell myself it’s okay, because a) I have a strangely short forehead so there’s room for some backwards growth, and b) I plan to shave my head again in 2028 — a whole decade after the first time.

Everything is going to change soon. I’m getting closer to the ‘semi-routine’ I’d desperately craved, obsessed and wrote about far too much. I’m excited and worried about only the silliest things. I’ll share those another time, maybe.

*…20 minutes. It just stopped. And almost immediately, all of us in the room started typing faster.

Thank you for reading, and bearing with me.

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