Over

“Over,” I say, and my dog and I cross the road. Overnight, after oversleeping, I’ve become overcome with cold. I’m usually overrun with chores but I’m taking it easy today. A contrast to yesterday, blitzing my overgrown garden; now my pavement is overcrowded with overfilled brown wheelie bins and strong, green gardening bags.

I look in the dictionary and have never heard of ‘overhand’. Wikipedia tells me it’s a boxing term and a knot, and I’m not a violent person but right now I’m angry. My neighbour’s extension has gone over and above what was promised to me; it’s already overhanging the light into my south-facing garden.

I head to the bank to check that I’m not overdrawn, not dipped into my overdraft, then buy some over-the-counter medicine before this cold overpowers me. I think I’ve been overcharged. On the way home, another neighbour calls me over. So, switching off my iPod’s classical overture, we talk over the fence, while his England flag flutters overhead.

To say I’m fat is an overstatement. I’m a little overweight and could do with an overhaul of my eating habits, but it would be an oversimplification to say 5-a-day fruit and veg would do it. I often overlook them at the supermarket, an unhealthy oversight. My body’s been doing a bit too much overtime at the moment so it really wouldn’t hurt.

An early night is also long overdue but I have plans tonight (I’m having writing friends over) so an afternoon nap will have to make do.

My back is complaining, it does that a lot. When I go to pick something up it says, “don’t overdo it” but I never listen. Tomorrow morning I shall carry stacks of Red Cross-donated books which I’ll tip on to the counter and their shiny covers will slip against each other and overbalance on to the floor.

In the afternoon, what energies I have will be used to empty my loft (pre-electrician’s visit), bring down the boxes of already-bought presents that will overwhelm my mother in September, when she’s easily pleased, although I suspect she overplays it, oversells for my benefit. My aunt, her twin, will just look overawed, carrying her overladen gift bag into the kitchen, putting her Andre Rieu DVDs with the others. An überfan.

Then Wednesday lunchtime my job sharer will read me her handover notes as our shifts overlap, my turn to work two and a half days before another weekend arrives.

I usually travel overseas but my friend and I are busy so we’ll wait a year. She’s off to Mexico, me to Winchester. I’ve never been there before so I’ll need to pay attention so I don’t overshoot the junction, overstep the mark on the map for the venue.

If I played cricket I think it would be underarm not overarm, that’s just how I throw; like a girl.

Radio Litopia’s AgentPete calls me an overachiever but I like to think I’m just overjoyed with all things literary. We chat during Sunday night’s Open House then our Skype connection is terminated before I overstay my welcome. I live and breathe writing, albeit stuffily through a red overblown nose. I sneeze over and over again.

Having over-egged today’s prompt, this ditty is over. Well, anymore would be overkill, wouldn’t it?

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