We are having a night off.
Because of this I am going to write a very hasty diary entry and then follow the yearnings of my soul. I am going to go to bed early.
It is lovely not to be at work.
Mark, of course, has worked all day.
I did not work. I bathed the dogs, because they smelled of wee, and cleaned the bathroom and hoovered the landing and tidied the children’s bedrooms now that they have buzzed off back to school.
This was ghastly.
You might recall that Oliver has had some sort of horrible disease which has involved a leaking face. He purloined the kitchen roll from downstairs as a remedy for this distressing condition, and appears to have blown his nose regularly during his visit.
Every time he has blown his nose it is obvious that he has gone on to drop the filled tissue on the floor, at which point the dog has leapt on it and chewed it up.
When I went in to his room this morning it resembled a rather stickily biological version of a snowstorm, dotted about here and there with empty yoghurt pots and sweet wrappers and unwanted chicken nuggets. How the dog had missed those I do not know. Maybe the tissues tasted better. Also either his flu has included a touch of dysentery or he has been eating his chocolate brioche in bed. I had to change the sheets.
I retrieved the forgotten Spider Man, which had been the original purpose of my visit, and posted him to school, as requested. I posted some stuff to Number Two Daughter and an acceptance to the Prison Service. Spider Man is too tall to travel economy class, and by the time I had finished I had spent yet another sixteen pounds on postage. More if you count brown paper and Sellotape.
After the post office I went to Boots to collect Mark’s prescription for his blood pressure tablets. I am not terribly keen on going to Boots. They like to supervise your intake of non-prescription drugs with an overly conscientious enthusiasm. Also they like to know absolutely everything. If ever I were to suffer from any kind of embarrassing ailment, I would go somewhere else. I do not want some chirpy girl coming over to the taxi rank during the evening shift and saying: “Have your piles cleared up yet, Mrs. Ibbetson?” As it was the lady in front of me in the queue just said: “I’ve come for me mum’s tablets,” which seemed to be all the explanation necessary, and she was served without further discussion.
I hung washing up and brought in logs and swept the hearth. Then I turned my attention to removing the sort of treasured items that I have had on my shelves for ever, but which I no longer want to dust. I am packing pretty things in tissue paper and putting them in the loft, until I can afford either a cleaner or a cupboard with glass doors.
This sounds like nothing much, but actually it is quite profound and made me feel a bit sad. I have got shelves and shelves of pretty things, which are less pretty when they have got Quentin Crisp’s prescribed quantity of dust all over them, and which I simply do not want to have to clean. Our house is very high maintenance, and something is going to have to go.
Whilst I was packing I discovered that actually what I liked was not so much the things, as the pleasing self-image of being a Jolly Interesting Person. One small look at my shelves would have informed the curious, of whom there are none, that I am a Person Who Has Travelled (because of the Indian bells and Turkish dishes), and also who has Eclectic Tastes, (because of the hand made glass dish with the Eris rune on it) and also who has a Touch Of Whimsy, (because of the tin camel from Blackpool).
I was spending half of my lifetime dusting shelves in order that I could convince myself that I was a truly Interesting and Adventurous person.
I have put everything in the loft. I will live with being dull. It is less maintenance.
I am going to bed.
