Universe
This morning was another typical Motherload day: children need feeding, clothing, walking — no, driving to school (driving because another of the electric window motors died last night, and must be repaired, at enormous expense, immediately) — doctor's appointment, forms to fill in, car tax to pay, my own work disappearing further and further down the list of priorities. Suddenly I remembered that my daughter's swim gear was in the boot of the car, now at the garage. She needs it, of course, tomorrow. We have, of course, received dire warnings from teachers, while perched on tiny chairs in the classroom, feeling awash with memories of childhood admonitions, warnings about Not Forgetting The Swim Gear Or Our Children Will Be Humiliated. I rush out of the front door to walk to the garage. On my way I pass a squat object covered in a black bin liner. A notice taped to it reads, "Piano Stool. Please take". I walk on to the garage, retrieve swim bag, and return ...