I spent the weekend in bed.
That could be a delightful thing, you know, full of good books and happiness. But instead it was filled with the anthropology and despair. I relished the opportunity to get out of the house.
I decided on Friday night that Alicia and I needed to eat real food; not sandwiches, not pasta, and not yogurt. So I set for to the Halal to pick up chicken and olive oil (which was going to have the dual purpose of coating both the chicken and, later, Alicia’s hair…but I’ll get to that in a minute.)
It was cold outside–one of the first times in Dundee that I have perceived it as such. A frosty fog decorated the air, hanging low over the hilltown. I went to both the Halals on Hilltown, then up the street to Spar to pick up cling film, traipsing uphill in a damp and foggy wonderland.
After dinner of beer-can chicken, roasted potatoes and mushrooms, and garlicky kale with tomates, Alicia covered her hair in olive oil. She had spotted a few nits in her hair in the morning, and was very worried that the lice from September had returned. I combed out her hair in the morning and found nothing to suggest that they had returned–just that the nits that we hadn’t gotten the last time by virtue of them being too close to her scalp had finally begun to grow out. However, to be on the safe side, we decided we would sufficate any little buggers on her haid. So she used half a bottle of olive oil in her luxurious locks, and I helped her wrap her head in cling film.
Saturday was noteworthy only in that Lori arrived, and Caoimhe dropped by for a visit after she was done volunteering at the Hilltown Christmas Festival. Apparently in order to get their pictures taken with Santa, the children had to provide lots of information about their views on the place they lived, such as how safe they felt.
We drank tea on my bed, which has become the defacto meeting place for anyone who comes to our house. Why use the cold leather sofas in the cold living room when you have cozy down comforters and memory foam?
Naturally, I managed to spill some tea on my beautiful orange poppy duvet, about which I spent a few moments freaking out. This duvet, a gift from my mother before I moved to Germany in 2006, has comforted me through 2 foreign countries, 1 tiny dorm room in a converted barrack in Berlin, 1 Romantic slum in a converted opera house, 1 house full of crazy girls in which I slept in an unheated sunroom, 1 duplex with crazy neighbors, and 1 flat in a sketchy part of town on a hill in Dundee. I cannot bear the idea of it slowly becoming worn and stained and broken, since I can’t replace it. I comforted myself with the idea that the stains just give it character–they’re a road map of where we’ve been together.