I feel compelled to write to you to apologise for the accumulated debris of this household and for the fact that I have to ask you to come in and clean it all up. I want to ask forgiveness for the condition that you find it in. The small facets of debris that glare out at me like strange planets piling up on the kitchen floor as in dog hairs and rice strands and crumbs of bagels and brown bread and the thin layer of grease on the stove top, the overflowing basket of clothes that need ironing, that all blend into a new universe that I am unaccustomed to dealing with.
There are days when I wish I did not need you to come make it all spanking clean again. I am not used to you. I am not used to relinquishing my duties. But you see, these days I am lost in Nutrition and Sauces and Restaurant Management and my head swirls with recipes and ideas and there are nights when I dream food and all things to do with food and I float into menus clad in dazzling white to orbit around the starters and zoom headlong for the entrees with an ignited vigour, stall over the wines only to drift into Bavarois and Souffle and home made Lady Fingers, Fruit Coulis, Sauce Anglaise, Creme Patisserie to become enveloped in Puff Pastry on the one hundredth tedious roll. Ah the seduction of food all at the price of a tidy house.
There are times when I want to be as I was. I miss Bach for instance and my woollen socks and I miss my experimentation in the kitchen with recipes and I miss my red wine and I miss the company of the dogs. Take tonight for instance, driving home from a day not well spent in school and the sun shining on the bay and all the world out taking in the heavens and I stuck in the car for a one hour commute thinking and wishing for something I had or thought I had. Why is that Ramute? What do you have? Are you happy? Do you like cleaning my house? Are you wishing to be cleaning your own and cooking as I do all day long in a school with marble tables and sparkling stainless steel? Do you mind ironing old t.shirts with silly logos? Do you pet my dogs? Do you sit at the table where I used to sit to dream and count the yellowing daffodils, the new buds on the ash tree beyond the window and do you wish to be somewhere else or do you simply get on with it?