Spin Cycle by Ilsa Evans Read Free Book Online

will one day (perhaps not in my day, but one day) qualify as genuine antiques. I love my L-shaped dining room cum lounge-room, my kitchen and also my tiny little meals area next to the kitchen which can barely fit a small table and two chairs. I even love my archaic bathroom with its shower-over-the-bath despite its mosaic brown-flecked minuscule tiles which cover every (and I mean every ) available surface and which I shall replace with gusto as soon asI have the necessary funds. Revolting or not, it’s still mine. I end my meandering, uplifting tour in my own bedroom that is dominated by a large 1950s walnut bed-head and matching wardrobe (which were an absolute bargain at a local garage sale last year). As I sit down on the floral-peach (definitely not salmon, not even close) covered doona, take a sip of my wine and look around me, I can actually feel the pleasure I take in this room seeping into my bones, helping me to relax and put everything in perspective.
    I love my house.
    I take another sip and smile as I begin to feel better. However, one of the things that I have learnt with age is that even pleasure has its limits – and it is very difficult to sit and do nothing for an extended period of time. So when, after about fifteen minutes, it starts to feel odd that the house is so quiet and I am so unoccupied, I decide to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. As usual the outfits I want to wear don’t fit, and the ones I’ll have to wear are either in the wash or need ironing – and I’m not that motivated. In addition, I cannot find one of my favourite shoes anywhere. I pick up my glass, which is now half-empty, and make a mental note to consider enrolling in one of those get-yourself-organised classes. I can always use the money that I would have spent on therapy.
    In her room, CJ has fallen asleep on top of her Barbie doona so I put my glass down on her bedside table, wipe her tear-stained little face and kiss her gently before rearranging her securely into the bed.
    â€˜Don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ I whisper softly as I feel riddled with guilt. I should never have sent her off like that – I mean, the mushrooms were revolting after all. And I bet she didn’t brush her teeth on the way. I sit down on the bed next to her and tenderly smooth the blonde tendrils back from her face. It never ceases to amaze me just how angelically beautiful young children look while they are asleep. My heart involuntarily contracts as I tuck her doona up and that’s when I notice the crumpled photograph of her father she has clutched to her bosom.
    Oh well.
MONDAY
10.42 pm
    What is it that I want? I’m back to the same old question that refuses to be answered. That’s why I went to therapy in the first place – to get some answers. But I seem to have ended up with more questions. What the hell is wrong? Apart from the fact that my mother is getting remarried, and my sister has decided to add to the population growth. I mean, these are just more bloody straws – and the camel’s back was already pretty bowed down. So, is this a mid-life crisis? Do I need to buy a red sports car, dress inappropriately, or have an affair with a blond half my age to make myself feel better? Well,actually I suppose the blond couldn’t hurt. But, then again, the underlying problem would still be there after my breathing returned to normal. And I just don’t know what the underlying problem is. Apart from the fact that I’m not terribly happy – and that the unhappiness feels like it’s turning into some sort of internal heaviness that is perpetually weighing down my every action. But it’s not like true depression – I’ve read about that hell – more like I’m stuck fast in a rut and I can’t seem to pull myself out. Even if I knew which direction ‘out’ was. Maybe that’s the damn source. I take a deep breath because I will not let