Me: Got a job!
Rick: No way! Where?
Me: Steamy Sips.
Rick: Brothel?
Me: If by brothel you mean café. Then yup!
Rick: OMG unlimited long blacks.
Me: No – unlimited FLAT WHITES!
Rick: Balla. How much does it pay?
Me: Nothing…
Rick: …
Me: Food and board.
Rick: Oh. I guess that’s okay? No more car camping. What’s the boss like?
Me: Weirdly, pretty cool.
Rick: That is weird. You NEVER think people are pretty cool.
Me: I know…
Rick: Like, how cool?
Me: Not as cool as you.
Rick: Good. Keep me posted. And stay away from the cats.
Me: It’s them that need to stay away from me!
Rick: Goodnight crazy cat lady
The smell of tomato and basil soup wafted down the hall from the slow cooker, and my stomach grumbled. I’d cleaned the industrial-sized oven as soon as I arrived back today, and I was exhausted. Breeze had insisted that I not start work until tomorrow, but I couldn't escape the fear of being a charity case. It had been necessary for my sanity to do something helpful before I laid my head down.
I hadn’t realised the job would take hours, or that the commercial cleaner would make my eyes and nose run the whole time. A red rash had crept up both forearms.
There wasn’t an official cook that worked in the kitchen, and it was really only used by Breeze when she prepared our mealsor the food that would fill the cabinets. In her parents’ day, they’d served a breakfast and lunch menu too, but Breeze could not maintain the cost of the chef. The kitchen hadn’t had a deep clean since then, and I cringed thinking of the food she prepared there. Oh well. Even if I were only here for a few days, I’d get it gleaming.
One of the more useful additions to my thirties had been late-night stress cleaning. I’d shamelessly replaced drinking with the satisfying scrub of a dirty room. Hangovers had become long, drawn-out punishments I was no longer willing to sign up for.
Cross-legged on the floor with my spiral-bound notebook, I began a list of potential house donors. It was surprisingly hard to come up with anything, so I put my headphones in my ears, switching on a slow rock playlist. Then I remembered something Dax had told his training group about brainstorming. Write every idea down, even if it seems completely stupid. It could lead to an actually good idea. Was I pleased that I’d retained something useful from my forced participation? Nope. His arrogance caused my blood pressure to bubble.
I wroteSilly Ideas Listand underlined it. Then I tried to channel a monk and let my mind clear.
Santa.
Mr Cringle.
Elton John.
The Pope.
