I am finding it very difficult to write anything this evening. It has been a quiet day, and I am not feeling terribly inspired. The sun is shining, and I am warm, and a bit sleepy, and so might make this short so that I can read my book.
I am on the taxi rank, partly because we need some cash, and partly because it is the only place where I can do nothing whatsoever with a completely clear conscience.
I like the idea of doing nothing whatsoever. I am going to do that in a few minutes.
We weren’t late home from Elspeth’s last night, but I was still tired this morning.
I didn’t hear the alarm at all, and Mark surprised me with coffee. This turned out to be later than usual, because he hadn’t heard the alarm either. This meant that we could not hang about with coffee in bed, contemplating our imaginary garden conversion for quite as long as we would have liked, but had to get up and rush about getting Mark ready for work.
Once he had gone, the day seemed to fill itself very easily. There were all of the usual morning things that needed doing, and then I tidied some cupboards and wiped the surfaces and refilled the salt and pepper pots and threw away some dried onion that had become glued into a solid lump.
All of these things are tedious sorts of jobs, and don’t feel like magnificent achievements at the time, but they do help one’s future go a bit more smoothly. It is very tiresome to have a hot dinner on the table and then have to start hunting about to find the spare bag of salt that might be in the back of one of the cupboards, perhaps the one with the empty jam jars. It is nice to know that some things, at least, will progress without irritating hiccups for a while.
Once the children surfaced the day became more interesting. They are currently sharing Oliver’s bedroom, due to Lucy’s having been emptied of everything except the desk and chest of drawers. This last is so huge we haven’t got room for it anywhere else, and the desk is stuck to the wall.
Lucy and I washed the horrible black walls and peeled the loose plaster off the ceiling, ready for Mark to replaster it when he came home. Whoever converted our loft into a bedroom had rather more enthusiasm than ability, and the floor flexes whenever anybody does anything interestingly lively up there. This means that the plaster on the ceilings below cracks, and occasionally falls off.
We broke off the loose bits, which made a mess, and then the children thought that it was ready for painting.
I gave them some dust sheets for the carpet and left them to get on with it.
I answered some emails and filled in some forms. The Prison Service has sent me more forms to be completed, these were to remind them to pay my pension to Mark when I die. I am intrigued by the amount of stuff that people have got to think about in proper jobs which are not driving taxis. I have never given my pension a thought, on the assumption that once the children have left school, we will not need money any more, and can give it all up and live contentedly in the camper van, probably selling clothes pegs and heather for a living.
In the end I couldn’t concentrate any more, and sloped off back to bed. I knew this was wicked and idle but didn’t care.
Obviously I got up to feed everybody and put my dinner in a box to take to work, and here I am.
I am going to read my book now.
Have a picture of a newly-plastered ceiling.
