I was not at all looking forward to today.
As you know, the children went back to school yesterday.
It is not difficult to guess what needed to happen next.
Not only were their bedrooms bearing evidence of the recent inhabitants, the rest of the house had also clearly been abused as well. It was not difficult to tell that several people, and a couple of dogs, none of whom had wiped their feet or put anything away, had been living here over the weekend. Not only that, but it was equally clear that all of those people had been busy working, and hence in a terrific rush. It was uncomfortably obvious that they had simply eaten anything and everything they could find, and not been in the least inspired by the recollection that crumbs can be wiped away.
It was not nice.
Sticky is the word that comes to mind, writing as I am from the far end of a dispiritingly wipery sort of day.
It is something of a relief to be at that end of it. It was depressing indeed to get up this morning and to discover that not only was the house festooned with dust and sticky, but the beautifully pristine quilt cover bore a tiny, but utterly shocking yellow stain, left there by an excited dog, for which the only solution was laundry. Boiling laundry. Some things are too horrifying for words.
When Mark had gone off to work I stuck the fortunately functioning washing machine on the Extra Hot With Disinfectant setting, and we went off to run up the fell.
The world is swimming in colour, making me feel that my soul has been starving for green, and I had not even noticed.
Once I had panted back along the alley I went to the bank to deposit the weekend’s profits, and up to Booths to purchase some Ethical Cheese in order to avoid having to cook anything later, we can just have cheese and some Ethical Crackers left over from last time. I am not going to make picnics, because we are not going to work tonight. Mark has got his maths class and I have had enough of taxis for a couple of days.
I came home by the unofficial route of climbing over the wall in the car park and sliding down the banking, which is undignified but quick. Then I set to the Dreaded Housework.
I bathed the dogs , and explained that further leaks would carry a penalty of eternal exile to the Dog Corner. Then I scrubbed hair and black mould and other revolting substances out of the bath. When I had finished with our bathroom I went to do the children’s, which made me guiltily glad for Oliver’s lack of passion for ablutions.
I had a brief mid-day shirk, during which I telephoned my parents, partly as an excuse to put my feet up for a few minutes. They had not spent their bank holiday driving enormously fat sunburned people ‘just up the hill because it’s a bit steep to walk on my bad leg’. It had been my mother’s birthday, and they had gone to spend it in Ireland with some Irish relatives and my brother and sister.
We had been invited but had declined for economic purposes.
They had been wined and dined by Irish relatives. They had stayed in the penthouse suite of a nice hotel and eaten very well.
They chirruped happily about five star cuisine and water parks and swimming pools and sophisticated travel loveliness.
They had even had the exciting adventure of being stopped and their baggage confiscated and searched in the airport. This was unexpected, but perhaps the Home Office has introduced a new profile alert warning airports to beware of a new breed of ruthless eighty-year-old terrorists, you can’t be too careful with aviation.
It all sounded very thrilling.
I was just contemplating a way of making driving a taxi and living mostly on bananas and cheese on toast sound captivating in return, when they announced that they were off out doing something else interesting, and would have to go.
They hung up and I plodded off to empty the hoover.
Being eighty sounds more exciting than being fifty.
I shall look forward to it.
