Slightly Bemused: Making A List

Slightly Bemused writes:

What is more inspiring than looking into the sky, seeing lots of stars, and dreaming?

My dishwasher is about to have a few days relief. Little and Glitter Slightly have headed off for foreign climes more conducive to one used to warmer temperatures. Hy heater has been more active of late than usual, too sometimes at my own direction. And a few nights have been spent curled up on the couch as the main heating is not on, this room is warm, and why not?

Why not indeed!

So early of a Monday morning, Muggins set out. I lost the Dad lottery of drop off versus pick up. So there I am, awake at an hour that I think God meant only for angels – I still love sunrises, even when they are in your eyes as you drive – and off to the airport. Two very different young ladies off to share an adventure I will never know the half of. The way it should be.

But I realised a few things. They are totally different. Take, for example, getting ready. Do you make lists of what to prepare? In over thirty years of traveling, I never did, and only forgot my passport once.

I arrived at the long term parking at Dublin Airport at 4:30 am or so and headed on the bus to the terminal. Rooted in my bag and found I did not have passport or ticket. I am only 35 minutes from the place at normal speeds, so maybe… just maybe I could make it. Nope, not to be. The good guy inside me that decided not to speed the day Little Slightly was born was still on my shoulder. I was late, but I had an emergency number for just such cases. Great travel team, they reorganised my flight, and I was told my flight would be much later, so go back to bed. Very practical. I got my extra hours of sleep, I got my flight, and life went on.

And passing through the airport in Addis Ababa I realised I had developed an allergy to penicillin. My ankles and feet swelled up painfully, almost glowing with the redness, and were quite painful on the thankfully short final leg. Arrived to the final destination and fell into bed, forgetting to take the final round of the pills, and in the morning all was well again.

Maybe Little Slightly will tell you her tale of coming here, her first solo intercontinental flight. I will ask her. On Friday whenever she awakes.

But Sunday night  was a time of amusement. Both Little and Glitter had made lists of what to pack. One fit on a yellow Post It ‘borrowed’ from a dad without his knowledge. Might be a grounding offence, but I have to see. The other was a detailed list, colour coded and separated by type. Before anyone laughs, the same lady drew me a Happy Birthday sign many years ago in coloured letters. It is still hanging on my wall where it was left, and each day it brings me joy. She told me that she thinks in colour. I envy her.

Little Slightly’s mother thinks in lists. I don’t, although I do value checklists to make sure you have not forgotten anything important. Like the note on the door when you are leaving ‘Have you turned off the immersion?’. Little Slightly assured me she had, without prompting. She is becoming more Irish. Her boyfriend/fiance type person has noted that she has changed her accent and her terminology. She says ‘Grand’ where once ‘great’ held sway. He claims that she has a pronounced Irish accent, but also a British one for some words. She has adopted some of my elocution honed remnants of a Stillorgan accent, so that may explain that.

So I drop them off at the airport. Little Slightly, coming from a place of soaring temperatures, doffs her jacket to give to her cousin shivering away in a balmy Irish Monday morning. And casually hands me all the garbage from her pockets and backpack. Why could she not have checked for this at home, like last night? Strangely, my heart melts because I was always last minute. She told me she was always ready to pack 24 hours in advance. I am more like a 24 minutes person. She also left her unfinished peanut butter and banana on good wheaten bread slices for me to enjoy. Oh joy!

The night before was quietly frantic. No rushing around, but constant movement as bags were stuffed, tape measures were requested (Ryanair, apparently) along with the use of my luggage scales. And finally a head down on the couch in the warmth to await the morning.

This morning, I realised how used I already was to her presence. I had questions. She did not answer from her place on the couch. Because she is not there.

But Sunday night, before she slept, I found her. She had asked me about the Big Dipper, and if we could see it. When she was lucky with a clear sky it was just above the horizon. I told her that it was high in our sky and roughly pointed, sadly the nights were clouded. But I showed her where it would be if the night were clear.

Sunday night was clear, and I came into the kitchen, and was greeted by a disembodied voice. There she was, sitting on the step of the kitchen door, cupping a mug in hand, and looking at the sky. Both ‘Dippers’ were in sight, and Cassiopeia too. Scudding clouds blocked the south, but she seemed content.

There she was, looking at the Plough and the stars, and dreaming of something wonderful.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pics by Slightly

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