Sometimes things don't go to plan.
I'm dreaming about yesterday.
It's Sunday. Instead of doing Sunday things like most folk, I head to the office to finish off some work that needs putting to bed. I work a thirteen hour day, punctuated by sandwiches, tea, and cake, and after leaving a note to say I'll be in late, I head home around ten thirty.
My dreams are getting
way too literal.
The drilling saves me from reliving the cold drive home.
In fact, the drilling is shaking the bed.
Back in the now, I crack my eyes - they're really not ready to open - and take a few moments to introduce the curtained room into Monday's reality. My room. My bed. My juddering teeth as the drilling restarts.
A glance at the clock tells me it's a respectable hour, but earlier than I would have liked; eight-thirty in the morning. There's a quiet knocking at the door. I open my mouth to respond, but manage little more than a cough. Still, it's enough.
Yavin enters the room, bearing a laden tray. The badger is in his usual engineering dungarees and flat cap, his pipe and tobacco tin poking from opposing breast pockets. He approaches the bed and nods a good morning.
Hey Yavin, good morning. I exercise my slow jaw from side to side, and am rewarded with a reluctant crack. I cough again absently.
What on earth is that drilling? Ignoring my question for the time being, the badger proffers the tray, and my slow early-morning senses are assailed by the delicious smell of fried food.
Good grief, is that breakfast?No reply is forthcoming; clearly I'm being rhetorical. The tray is seriously loaded; a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, mushrooms and beans. A rack of granary toast. Butter, jam, marmalade. And a pot of tea. Ooh, and a tiny ramekin of ketchup.
My tummy rumbles. Yavin's coarse facial fur rearranges into a smile.
Wow, this looks amazing. Thank you. But why? The diminutive engineer is remarkably expressive most of the time, but not when both of his paws are busy.
It this a karmic thing? Was I kind to badgers in a previous life? This comment receives no reply as outside, the drilling restarts. Yavin glares sideways at the mostly-closed curtains and the street beyond. With a deft flick of stray digits, legs extend from the sides of the tray, and he deposits it carefully onto my lap; he has to stand on tip-toes to do this. That done, he turns his attention to the juddering without.
Thank you. Strolling over to the curtains, the badger casts them wide with a flourish and surveys the street scene below.
Workmen? Yavin wrinkles his nose with distaste and nods. He has a keen distinction between skilled engineers and
labourers.
Three of them? One drilling, one doing nothing, and one with a clipboard who looks important but who's also doing nothing? This is just a guess, based on years of observing road crews, it but receives another nod and a heaved sigh.
I tuck into the breakfast, menacing a sausage first and moving onto the bacon and a generous shovel of beans. Toast is dipped in bean juice, and tea is slurped. It really
is amazing; just the right temperature, bursting with flavour and - best of all - made by someone else. Though I still have no idea why.
So, how come I get breakfast today?I realise that Yavin is no longer in the room. I've just reached the halfway point of my plateful, and the drilling has faded into the background of my attention. I cast my eyes about, and bizarrely wonder if the badger is under the bed, before recommencing my feast; the mushrooms are particularly good.
A moment later, as I'm pouring myself a cup of tea, Yavin wanders back in with a newspaper under his arm. Quietly padding round the bed to the empty side, he hops up, makes himself at home in the mound of pillows and settles down to read. This familiarity is comfortable and undemanding; the company of friends always is.
The pneumatic excavation thunders into fresh life.
I'm just about to enquire about breakfast again, when both the drilling and my chewing are halted by a high-pitched chittering roar from outside. A shiver passes down my spine; I know the sound all too well. Stunned silence follows, abruptly ended by a second outburst, the clatter of dropped tools and some unmanly screaming.
Yavin changes page behind his paper, apparently unmoved.
Hey Yavin, was that a... squiddrel? I move to get up, but a friendly paw pats my hand and gently stays my exit from the bed.
Yavin, I should go and see; I thought we'd caught it. I can't believe it. Several months ago, I spent
a terrifying and enlightening day with
iDifficult tracking his giant hybrid squid/squirrel down, across park and town. Though, to be honest, most of the time it was close on
our heels making that terrifying noise; it didn't care for our inept attempts at capture. It was a character building experience, though we required some serious laundering afterwards.
A minute of internal turmoil passes. The breakfast cools slowly.
I'm brought back to my senses by heavy
animal footsteps making their way quickly upstairs. And then I hear the roar again from the landing; it's deafening. Stirred into action, I lift the tray and move it aside, placing it in front of the stoic badger.
Just as I'm about to put a foot into a slipper, the bedroom door crashes aside, and I'm faced by the terrifying visage of the mighty red squiddrel. I stifle a cry
* and retreat back onto the bed. The faceful of wet, suckered tentacles extends in my direction and the creature's beak opens to scream its rage on cue.
[
* a manly cry, a shout of surprise. Obviously.]
Actually, framed in the doorway, the beast is smaller than I remember. It's barely five feet tall, in fact. And I'm puzzled to see that it's carrying a clipboard and a length of pneumatic hose.
Time goes glacial for an endless, surreal second.
Then, with a giggle, the top falls off the red-furred beast. Black and white legs wiggle comically from the up-ended torso, and a young badger face peeps out from inside the legs.
In my peripheral vision, I spy that Yavin's newspaper is shaking up and down with some voiceless mirth.
HOTH! SOLLUST! I laugh - relieved - at Yavin's twin nephews,
You guys scared me to death!Young Sollust grins impishly over the bottom half of this pantomime costume, and offers up a black-and-white salute; he's the image of a sub-mariner poking out from a conning tower. He also looks tired, but I guess he's been running around with his brother on his shoulders for the past few minutes.
Hoth waves from inside the head with a pink tentacle; he seems in no hurry to leave his costume. And to make the point, he roars in his own badger voice and starts to chase Sollust round the bedroom. They collide at the foot of the bed and collapse into a tussling, growling heap.
I settle back to continue my breakfast. As I replace the tray on my lap, I notice that my teacup is empty. And there's the sound of toast being munched upon behind the newspaper.
Yavin?The paper drops and wise old eyes gaze back at me.
I've been working really hard of late. Starting early and coming back late. I'm finished now. He nods his understanding.
This breakfast was just what I needed, and very kind. Thank you. But why?...He smiles indulgently, and I realise that I've answered my own question.
Guys? Two curious snouts rise about the footboard.
Thanks for sorting the drilling crew out. They wave the captured clipboard and hose, and roar at each other between their giggles. The uncostumed twins then hoist themself onto the bed and set about the remains of my breakfast. I sip at a cup of tea and smile.
Sometimes things don't go to plan.
Sometimes other people's plans trample on the best laid plans.
But sometimes, other people's plans are perfect.
Indigo This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2010Drilling borrowed from The Museum Of New Zealand, with thanks!
