Based on the Aerosmith song: Same Old Song and Dance.
The woman stirs as the alarm besides her quietly goes off telling her its 5am. She feels her head has not long hit the pillow and already another day has dawned.
Beside her the husband snores his way into the new day.
She hears the toilet flush and knows its his sister is up early as always, in the toilet, then the shower, then expects breakfast before she hurries off to work in the city.
The sister has left her husband and is staying with them until she ‘sorts something out.’ It’s been two months now and the woman fears the sister is getting too comfortable. She and her husband have discussed the current arrangement but he won’t hear a word about suggesting she move on.
Her feet hit the floor and simultaneously slip into her worn old slippers.
With that her morning routine begins and she knows her role is important to everyone but her.
The children expect to see her there in the kitchen when they come in, one will be rowdy, the other sleepy resenting being up and unhappy about having to get ready for school. But as she says, the bus wont wait and he’ll have to walk if he misses it.
She goes through her morning ritual, boil kettle, set the table, prepare kids lunches and her husbands he has expectations that as he is the bread winner he should be treated as such with his breakfast made, his lunch made the way he likes it and he makes his disapproval known if she deviates from his expectations.
She flicks on the radio, the usual news, disasters here and there, he said she said, then the predictable songs of morning radio, designed to wake you up and put you in the mood to start your day.
It plays away its monotone programs, the music blasts out but one hears it, they are intent on satisfying their own needs and whinge when something is not there.
Once they are all up and at the table her morning dance begins in earnest, from side of the room to the other, a quickstep here and a waltz there, arms manoeuvring the respective plates with eggs and bacon, then cups of tea and coffee and tumblers of juice all measured exactly to each recipients requirements.
Her life is a series of predictable moments, each one crushing her more than the previous one.
As the final child leaves, her husband throws her a cursory kiss more out of habit than with meaning, and she swirls one last time as the radio plays “Three Times a Lady” and she sits for the first time, sheds a tear and understands the saying, each day is ‘the same old song and dance’.
She surveys the morning mess and sighs as she remembers her mother’s saying: ‘same shit different day.’