After waking early yesterday, accompanied by an inability to return to the slumber, my fatigue levels were at the heightened plateau last experienced when I worked nightshifts.
Although the dream that woke me was weird, it could be by no stretch of the imagine be classed as a nightmare…… Unless you are freaked out by buying a shirt with defective buttons, which you can’t exchange due to losing the receipt.
My disorientation resultant from exiting deep sleep, further exacerbated when I found the shirt receipt (from the dream) in the pocket of my pyjama bottoms.
My mum always taught my siblings and me that “A man will always be judged on the quality of his shirt buttons!”
Well, apart from to my sister who was negatively indoctrinated with the advice “Never worry about your shirt buttons……. Ensuring clothing fasteners are fit for purpose is the responsibility of men, unless it’s Velcro which is a bit of a grey area”
My sister Helen was briefly ostracised in her late teens by mum (Maggie) for not following this advice. Experiencing her mother’s wrath after becoming unnecessarily anxious about a defective press stud on her blouse.
It was only when my brother Ian highlighted to Maggie that a blouse isn’t technically a shirt (so the rule shouldn’t apply) she agreed to take the dispute to arbitration.
The independent arbiter, old Bert who collects the shopping baskets at our pharmacy, adjudicated in our Helen’s favour.
Initially mum wasn’t happy at being overruled. However was placated shortly after when old Bert promised her 500 Nectar card points and a coaster set adorning Corrie’s Peter Barlow.
The Boots basket collectors impartial judgement that a blouse wasn’t a shirt thankfully ended my sister’s ostracisation. However, the Velcro responsibilities weren’t settled at that meeting and as yet remain a grey area.
To celebrate the new found family unity my parents held a house party, where old Bert regaled guests with shopping basket anecdotes and addresses of reputable fridge magnet retailers.
He wasn’t invited, although no one seemed to care after his captivating story on how shopping baskets got their name.
During Tuesday’s fatigue influenced existence, my resilient wee spouse underwent her ‘four weekly oncology treatment’.
It’s called ‘four weekly treatment’ as she has it every four weeks. If she had it every three weeks the procedure would be named ‘three weekly treatment’.
In the event of her wanting to keep the the frequency secret, it would be called ‘It’s got bugger all to do with you how often I have this treatment!’
Bearing in mind her former fear of needles, Karen is wonderfully philosophical and untroubled these days by the injections administered during the ‘four weekly treatment’.
In a waiting room which includes terminally ill people amongst it’s throng, it can be heartwarming to see the comfort the very poorly patient receives from nursing staff.
Individuals who generally undertake the role as it’s their vocation to look after sick people.
It’s certainly not for the buttons they’re paid to carry out the role; which I hope aren’t as defective as the ones on my shirt in last nights dream!