I am sorry to say that I have had a bit of a non-event of a day.
I do not know how I have managed to drag my feet quite so thoroughly.
I woke up feeling headachy and weary, and after that everything seemed to turn into a difficult thing.
In fact I hardly did anything worth mentioning. I emptied the dogs, and did all of the usual tiddling about with laundry, purchased ethical salads in Booths and then, without any enthusiasm whatsoever, turned my attention to the dusting.
I have been avoiding this for the last week. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a fluffy grey snow seems to settle itself on every surface the second I turn my back. I do not know how it happened, because we have only lit the fire a couple of times this week, when the dreary wet weather became too much to be tolerated.
I had not even noticed the horrible indoor summer-day experience of rays of sunshine being glittery with twinkling motes of dust, although probably this is because we haven’t had any sunshine for the last few weeks. Also the windows have been open whenever it stopped raining for long enough and the summertime Lake District gales have been energetically blustering through the house.
Dusting is dull. I filled the hoover three times, and consoled myself with the reflection that it was nice not to be walking on gritty carpets afterwards. It is not a good sign when one feels one should put one’s shoes on to come in to a house.
I was supposed to be carrying on with the archway construction in the front garden, but somehow it just didn’t happen. I was still feeling very elderly, yawning and rubbing my arthritic bits, and the thought of spending the afternoon balancing on a wobbly stool was just more than I could contemplate.
I took my library books back instead.
Also I have been having some anxious moments about the possibility of a new job. This started this afternoon when an email alerted me to the hitherto unobserved detail that I will be expected to wear a uniform.
I am not very good at other people’s ideas of acceptable clothes.
Long-standing readers might recall that compulsory polyester trousers are, in fact, a personal red line when it comes to employment. Actually polyester anything, or even poly-cotton, or that sort of viscose that isn’t made out of squished up tree bark.
Basically I wear cotton, silk, cashmere or linen.
I have just re-read that last sentence and been mildly amused to realise that I am probably considerably more pretentious than I would like to think. I will have to put it on my application form for the middle classes.
In short, I do not think I want to be dressed in a cheap suit, especially the sort that makes electricity crackle around your fingers when you walk on a nylon carpet.
I have written to the nice lady at the funeral home and tried to explain this without sounding either pretentious or ridiculous. This required every creative writing skill I learned at Cambridge, I can tell you, apart from the ones where they wanted us to think about how we might express our Inner Selves in poetry, which was the day when I realised that I don’t actually have an Inner Self, just a series of obstreperous Outer Ones.
I don’t know what she will say, but it is a troubling moment. I would like to work there very much, but not if I have got to wear polyester trousers and a non-iron shirt.
The day, however, managed to finish on a happy moment.
One of the other taxi drivers has given me a birthday present. It is a road sign with 60 on it. It has also got my name on it so he hasn’t just pinched it from the road works on the motorway. He has really bought it, just for me.
It made me laugh a lot, and I was very touched indeed.
I have put it on the wall.
Sometimes life has some very lovely moments indeed.
I am feeling encouraged.
