I am at home again.
Mark has gone to work and I have not.
This is not exactly because I am idle. Going to work is hardly so exhausting that it is a hardship to be there at this time of year, indeed, actually it is a very comfortable time for uninterrupted reading, drinking cups of tea and occasionally watching junk on Netflix.
I am not at work because I am supposed to be fully occupied with painting the Advent calendars.
Actually I have not painted them very much at all. I am sorry to say that I painted one for a while, and then realised that it was the first time for ages that I have had the house completely to myself in the evening, and so it would be a perfect opportunity to get on with reading my story into the Audible recording machine.
I have been doing this, interrupted occasionally by the telephone ringing, the clock striking, and my computer occasionally making little dinging and chiming noises to inform me that people were sending me junk emails about their political opinions or about things I might like to purchase to make my life happier.
I had to stop and start again when that happened. This became easier as I remembered what it was that I was supposed to be doing to make it all happen, it is not easy being a recording artist, I can jolly well tell you, I am very glad I did not decide to be one for a living, taxi driver is a jolly sight less hassle.
It has been a rather splendid day. It is lovely to be back at home, and I have been appreciating it all very much. The dogs and I went out for our walk this morning, and they bounded around frantically, elated to find life predictable again.
The dogs had had something of an uncomfortable start to the day, actually, when we discovered that the crumpled patch on our bed also had a muddy paw print on it, and that somebody whose wickedness knew no bounds had jumped on it to mourn our absence.
Going on a person’s bed is a terrible crime, unless somebody has spread a towel on it first and made a special invitation. We had guessed that Roger Poopy had done something in our absence, because his guilt had been almost palpable, but it was not until we discovered the damning clue of the paw print that we worked out what it was.
It could not have been Rosie. She has got too fat to jump on the beds. She can’t even manage the back of the car or the sofa without a leg-up.
We did not say anything other than Oh Roger, in a tone of shocked disappointment, but it was enough, and he skulked off down the stairs with his ears and his tail down.
Poor Roger Poopy.
It was a splendid walk, though, the morning was grey and cool and still, and it was wonderful to be home. Later on I had a mug of our own familiar chai tea and breathed in the usual house smells of woodsmoke and dogs, and thought how splendid life is.
My job of the day was the ironing. We have had a lot of adventures and there were a lot of clothes to be made flat. I spent all afternoon flattening them but there are still a lot of crumpled ones. There is quite a lot more ironing to go. Fortunately I have got a good story on my telephone, I am appreciating these all the more now that I know how very difficult they are to make, and this one is splendid, it is an Old Bailey judge telling us about some of her interesting encounters with villains.
Mark went out to the farm to take the last bits out of the old camper van. It is going to go on Monday. We have decided to take it to the breaker’s yard.
I am not thinking about it.
I hope it does not feel frightened and betrayed, taken on its final short journey and then callously abandoned to its fate by the people who were once its family, left alone in the midst of great heaps of torn-up metal.
Poor van.
