It’s a beautiful day
It’s a beautiful day. There’s a very grumpy old cat on one side of my chair, whining incessently at the dog. The dog is looking perplexed at his disdain. Grumpy cat’s brother is sitting in my lap, occasionally letting off stink bombs so potent I’ve had to dab the odd tear from rommy my eye eye.
The window to my left is streaked with mud (thanks dog), mixing in with the dirt on the porch to form a paw-print mosaic (thanks again dog). There’s patchy grass, and a half-finished retaining wall, soil slowly dribbling from behind it and creeping over the lawn. The naked trees look like they’ve given up and are hanging their heads.
Everywhere I turn I see work and I wish for a fairy godmother to wave her wand and make it all neat and tidy, finished and pretty. Unfortunately, as a very wise woman once told me, there is no magic wand, and the odds of me being able to buy neat, tidy, finished and pretty are one in 3.8 million, or for the powerball option, one in 38 million. Time for a change of perspective. It’s a beautiful day. There’s a slinky cat sitting on one side of me, chattering away about his life. The dog is trying her best to be a good listener. On my lap is the slinky cat’s fluffy brother, using all of his insulating properties to keep me as warm as toast.
The window to my left is one my Uncle Graham hand-crafted out of cedar, set in a wall that my Dad and I built straight and true using a 100-year-old plumb line that belonged to his grandad. Through it I can see the verdant grass on the lawn, the fruit trees I’ve nursed from tiny to tall, all set against a celanese sapphire sky.
It’s a beautiful day.