Flying Out the Door.

I have always loved reading the comic strip "Dagwood". Initially, I would burst into peals of laughter at the mere mention of Dagwood and Blondie's family name - Bumstead. The innocent humour of myself when I was young. Later, I came to appreciate and enjoy the parallel realities of their lives and mine.

Probably, my favourite recurring situation was Dagwood, late for work, briefcase chockers, tie flying, shoes untied, charging straight into Mr. Beasley, their postman. Both of them would be knocked over and the ensuing scene resembled a catastrophe of jumbled letters, Dagwood's briefcase disgorging its contents to the universe and both characters flat on the ground with stars spinning around their heads.

This theme runs recurrently in our lives. The most unpunctual couple on the planet resides at the House that Rocks. Which is quite easy in some ways. For example, we rarely growl at each other for running late. There is no point as we really are as bad as each other. Sometimes, I am quite surprised we ever actually get anywhere on time.

This morning was a perfect example of one of my almost on time escapades. Waking with a feeling of dread at a quarter to nine, I realised we'd forgotten to put the bins out for the garbage collectors. I could hear the unmistakable roar of the Shire truck approaching. Bolting out of our warm bed, and irritating Madame Cat no end, I pulled on my jarmies, slippers, a particularly fetching short cardigan and hurtled out the front door.

Mission accomplished. Bins by the road before the garbos arrived. Next on the agenda was rewashing the load in the washing machine. This is a most frequent chore. I enthusiastically undertake mountains of washing on any particular day, only to fail to get all of the clothes on the line. Hence, the neglected blob of wet washing sits forlornly in the machine until I take pity, pull up my socks and wash the load again. Which I did this washing. And we actually hung this lot out once the cycle had finished...what a relief!

Ten-fifteen had come and gone. Bollocks. I still had banana bread to make. Luckily, Bas and Pascou weren't awake yet. I attacked the cooking quite efficiently and slid the mixture into the oven at ten forty-five. I had been washing up as I went along, so I left the minimum soaking.

I grabbed clothes, sandals and earrings and rushed into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I emerged, scrubbed, dried, creamed and dressed. I picked up my computer bag, flung it over my shoulder as I left the House that Rocks.

Flying out the front door, I half expected to collide with Mr. Beasley! And I was only ten minutes late to the East End Gallery.