comfort

This morning was no better than the last four. I couldn’t stop yawning in my last meeting. I left 5 minutes early, so I’d have enough time before my next meeting to pour a cup of coffee.

The coffee machine was being repaired.

The small comfort, the little bit of something I’d told myself would get me past the unpleasantness–denied!

I do love my comforts.

This makes me think about the British Empire and their obsession with civilizing the environments they travelled to. Perhaps in the story they told themselves about how their day–their life– would go, they required that all the people around them wear a certain type of pants.

I was pretty sure that I needed that cup of coffee. I was pretty sure I deserved that cup of coffee after all I’d been through.

I was entitled. These last four days I’d spent emptying the kitchen in my house. I had signed up and paid a lot of money for the privilege of having my kitchen destroyed. Then rebuilt. Of course.

Given time.

The space between the dis- and the comfort holds an abyss.

It’s the little things, right? Particularly the absence of them.

Food is pretty basic. I’d spent four days boxing up all the things that I had collected, the things I used every day to make sure I had what I needed to take care of myself.

Boxing and storing all my comforts for later.

It sounds overdramatic as I say it. But at the time, it was nothing less. I feel a glimmer of sympathy for those starchy British expatriates.

It’s going to be weeks of discomfort now in my house.

At least the coffee machine at work is running again.