Trouble

It's a bit of a waste really isn't it? I said this to you as I spooned another dollop of mashed potato onto your plate. You didn't notice what I was saying as you were too busy ladling on the tomato sauce and making it all pink. Swirling it all around and enjoying it.

The time was ticking on the clock in the kitchen and I shifted my chair uneasily on the tiled floor. It made that squeaking noise I wish it hadn't. This afternoon felt like a million miles away. It felt like a complete waste of a day again, still sleepy from the night before, still waking up into it before it dived under the covers.

We shifted our arms and repositioned our heads on the table. The forks were now slowly ticking away towards the edges of the plate, falling through the mash as our boredom increased. Our boredom moved us through the rest of the day, the noises of the house being our only companions once again, our hair getting dirty in the plates and the rest of the washing up. Couldn't even turn the kettle on, didn't even want a cup of tea.

Didn't even want the chocolate biscuits that Mum gave us when she came back. Her shopping basket skidded on the floor and her shoes scuffed us out of our dreams. Someone had replaced the summer holidays with school yet again.

Don't expect any sympathy from the day, Mum said. It's only doing its job.