I’m pretty sure I’ve written here that after I retired last December, from then on I’ve been measuring my days by when the school bell would go. I’d wander into the kitchen for a cuppa and see the clock on the oven.
“Nine fifty. Period 2. Better go and get dressed and start the day.”
“Two thirteen. Period 5. All I’ve done today is read a book. Better go and be productive!”
It’s not surprising, seeing as I worked at the school for 17 years and every single day was dictated by the timetable.
But this morning I had a conversation.
I was sitting on the couch in my pjs and dressing gown, the dogs snoring beside me. I’d just made breakfast and was idly thinking about what I was going to do that day. My phone rang. It was Megan, a friend from work.
She was calling to update me on what was happening with one of her cats. He’s been in the animal hospital for a couple of nights with a similar sort of blockage that Scout had a couple of years ago. Scout was very lucky to have survived that.
We were chatting away and then Megan said, “I’ve decided to leave him at the emergency vet to have the operation. I rang around to see if I could get him in somewhere else but it was all too much. I didn’t want to be driving him around, worried that I wouldn’t be able to get back in time to start my classes.”
My jaw dropped.
“OH YEAH!” I said.
I’d completely forgotten that term 4 started today.
It only took 9 months.
Dad joke for the day:
What do you call an elephant that doesn’t matter?