I have spent the last half-hour puzzling over what I might say to a youthful American who had read some of my writing online, and who wanted me to read some of hers.
I read it, and was rendered profoundly depressed by its scratchy blend of intolerance and self-pity, how glad I am not to be a teenager any more. Quite clearly, I thought, nobody understood her.
I couldn’t offer anything helpful, since I didn’t understand her either.
I am pleased to say that I could loaf about the computer because I had completed my Task For The Day, which was to water the conservatory. More, I have wound up the grandfather clock, swept and mopped, and made the downstairs clean and respectable once more. That is Sunday’s chores successfully completed, I am a person of untouchable virtue.
Usually Sunday’s chores include cleaning out the taxi, but its retirement is approaching with the speed of a taxi heading for home along the bypass at three in the morning. It has only got until Wednesday night left, and so I concluded that it could jolly well stay grubby for its final few nights.
This means that tonight I am less than ecstatic about being in it, as it encapsulates a faint odour of beer drinkers and leftover pizza, not to mention somebody’s wallet, a lipstick and some left-behind dog blankets which belonged to some inexplicably peculiar people who were choosing to push their dog around in a pram.
This last left me feeling mildly nauseous. Dogs walk. They need to amble along at their own pace, sinking their noses into other dogs’ wee and eating unsuitable leftovers from people’s picnics. When they are in too much pain to walk any more you dig a hole for them and get another.
Dogs do not go in prams.
Roger Poopy and Rosie found the alien dog blankets with great interest this morning, and very deliberately lay on them instead of their dog bed, so that when the owners came to retrieve them tonight they had become revoltingly muddy and covered in dog hair. I had to roll them up so that their owners did not notice.
I very nearly didn’t bother to mess about watering the conservatory. Saturday night ground on, as usual, until Sunday almost-breakfast time. I didn’t get to bed until almost six in the morning, with the result that I was tired today, and almost shirked. Eventually I managed to persuade my idle Bad Fairy that compelling myself to actually do it would be better than feeling uncomfortably guilty for the rest of the week whilst the poor plants drooped and gasped. The thing about feeling guilty about something is that it usually inspires me to ignore it completely, which is not very productive.
As a consequence I am now going to start the week on a cheery note, just the dusting, hoovering and clean sheets to go now, and I will be able to return to the week’s tasks with a clear conscience.E
I have got some tedious occupations lined up for next week, I expect you can hardly wait for me to tell you all about them. There is the taxi insurance to be renewed, a process always involving some lengthy and tiresome haggling. My retiring taxi needs to be insured then, as a car, not as a taxi, because we are keeping it merely for the purpose of lugging around dogs, firewood and other grubby detritus, without needing to spend the following couple of hours hoovering it out in a frantic hurry because we are late for work.
We have needed such a vehicle for quite some time.
Once I have finished the complex and fascinating process of negotiating with insurers then I can turn my attention once again to our ongoing dispute with our telecommunications provider, to whom a barrister friend has very kindly volunteered to write a scary letter, that will jolly well teach them.
After that I have got the new taxi to be inspected and all of the remaining paperwork to be completed, after all of which it is looking quite possible that Mark will be coming home.
We will then have a blissfully clear space, unless something goes wrong. I am very much hoping that it doesn’t, because we are going to go and work on the camper van.
I had better get the dusting done.
