Life in bright colours

Yesterday was an exemplary example of how apt the title of this blog describes my life. Picture the scenario. (Written in historical present, which we've been talking about in class last night.)

My novel class is just finishing. I have my phone out, which I've been using as my clock. My students are told they are not to have their mobile phones on unless they're expecting an emergency call. It's okay, because mine never rings. But today the unexpected happens: the phone rings. I answer it. It is my son, telling me he is sick, and that I have to come and pick him up.

"I'm at work. I can't. But I'll ring Mum." I wave to my students. The other editing teacher is waiting to speak to me.

"I've already rung and spoken to Opa. Oma's in the country."

Great. Now what am I going to do? There's no-one else I can call. "How sick are you?" I say, knowing he has just come back from music camp the day before and, although hoarse, spent the night doing much yelling.

"My stomach hurts, and I want to come home."

"I'll have to bring you back into work. You'll be here till 10 pm."

"That's okay. I've got sport after school anyway, and if I do stay I'll have to catch the late bus, and I won't be home till after eight."

"Can't you just miss sport and catch the normal bus home?"

"You know I can't."

"Okay."

So, I go and get him and bring him home. The first thing he does is let the dogs out, and the big dog knicks off down to the swamp. Because she's eaten her collar, she has on no identification, and is impossible to catch. So I send him out to round her up, and try to deal with the puppy. Inside, I find my daughter's lunch on the bench. My son was supposed to put it in her bag -- one of his few trade-off jobs for getting me to drive him to school. She was too late for breakfast and now has had no snack or lunch.

I deal with a few things at home and get my son a pillow and doona. On the way out, I spot a piece of cardboard with what looks like computer toner smeared all over it, in the backyard with the dogs. Toner is carcinogenic, so I think I'd better get it from them. Once around the back, I notice my dogs are multicoloured -- not just the red and white hues of the toller, but I'm talking vermilion, cobalt blue, bright yellow. Their legs are covered in patches of colour -- as are their mouths, and the deck! Strewn all about the yard are a set of watercolour-paint tubes, many of them chewed up. Great! What if they are poisonous? So I tell my son he has to wash the dogs, and he looks at me all doe-eyed from the couch. "But I'm sick!"

"I don't care. You left the paints out; therefore, it's your responsibility. I have to go back to work: I can't do it."

All the same, I help him get the dogs up there and get them started.

And today, I run around with a shovel, cleaning up some very interesting poos -- lovely versions in khaki and black.