It has been a day of serendipity.
The first, and most unspeakably exciting event, was the arrival of the thrilling new food mixing machine.
It arrived this morning whilst we were still in bed. It was an enormous, wet parcel, and I knew what it was going to be when the Royal Mail van was pulling on to the street.
Kenwood were right in telling us that the box had been a bit bashed. It was, but only a tiny bit, and we threw the box away in any case. The mixer was not bashed at all. It was carefully packed in layers of polystyrene, and when we lifted it out it was gleaming and perfect.
Somehow, Kenwood decided that a tiny cardboard crease meant that we could buy a mixer for seventy seven pounds instead of a hundred and ninety nine. The money Gods must have been whispering in their ear.
It is wonderful.
It is shiny and new, and Mark adjusted the beater so that it was at a perfect height. We fiddled about with the blender until we had worked out how to fix it into place, and then we admired it.
I didn’t use it. We are not short of baked things at the moment. We have got bread and custard tarts and biscuits and we have even still got some mayonnaise left. I couldn’t think of anything at all that we needed to eat, so reluctantly I tidied it all up and put it away in the cupboard.
Mark put the old one in the dustbin.
It felt flimsy and bashed next to the superior new Kenwood. The broken plastic bits rattled and the crack yawned wide.
The mixer never mixed the bit on the side of the bowl anyway.
Mark said that it wasn’t even worth keeping for the motor.
When we were dressed we had a co-operative hour of cleaning the house together. If we both clean the bathroom and hoover the dust off the top of the wardrobe, it gets done quickly and I don’t feel cross and resentful about a dusty world that is my sole, lonely problem to solve.
We knew about the dust on top of the wardrobe because of the new table. It was like a soft grey blanket.
Mark hoovered the top of the wardrobe and I cleaned gritty footprints out of the bath.
During the summer when we have got money, we put away soapy things, like shampoo and window cleaner and fabric conditioner, in an ancient bedding box that had once been my grandmother’s. We save them for the dark days of winter, and then even if we are completely broke, we can still clean out our ears and wash up the dishes. This is a morale booster in a grim time of year.
Today I went into the bedding box to restock the empty bathroom, and to my absolute astonishment, I discovered that somebody who really loved me had last year put a bottle of my favourite perfume into the box as a surprise.
Obviously this was me. Just so you know.
There was a bottle of Mark’s as well.
The perfume is an absolute Penhaligon’s luxury. We can’t afford it when we are affluent in the summer, never mind when we are penurious in the winter.
I squeaked with excitement. We have eked out our lovely perfumes to the very last drop, and here, here was a whole full bottle for both of us.
I put mine reverently into my sports bag for liberal squirting after the gym-and-swim-and-sauna-and-shower routine, and put Mark’s into the bathroom.
The bathroom looked complete again, with a beautiful bottle of perfume where the yawning empty gap had been.
I sighed with happiness, and then Mark shouted me from the bedroom.
He was beaming with triumph.
He had made a joyous discovery.
Regular readers might vaguely remember that last year during Ritalin Boy’s visit, my hairbrush, along with lots of other small treasures, vanished off my dressing table.
We found everything else, but the hairbrush stayed resolutely missing.
We hunted everywhere. Ritalin Boy said vaguely that it was in a dark place, and then decided that it hadn’t been him anyway.
This morning, Mark had been hoovering underneath the dressing table when he had noticed something mysterious sticking out from the bottom of the radiator.
If I ever hoovered under the dressing table we might have found it sooner. Then again, we might not, because it was well hidden. I don’t hoover under the dressing table because, well, life is just too short.
With some judicious manoeuvring, Mark managed to lever it out, and there it was. It was thick with a year’s dust, and he had to wash it, but when he had done, it was as good as new.
Of course my hair has not stayed unbrushed for a whole year. I bought another one ages ago. However, this means that we are now in the enviable and luxurious and undeniably middle class position of having a spare hairbrush, to brush hair and a spare, as it were.
When everywhere was suitably polished, and we had been to Booths for some ethically sound melons, I got our picnic ready for work. Custard tarts are splendid with raspberries and cream, just so you know.
Mark went off to find some firewood. This is a bit of a worry at the moment. Mark worked for Ted installing rural broadband for almost all of last year, and he did not lay any wood supplies in.
This has meant that we have been scraping along for ages. It has been a bit scary at times.
He came back in a state of great happiness. The RAF are refurbishing the building where they keep the air cadets. They are chucking out enormous great chunks of wood that used to hold the walls up.
They said we could have all of it.
There is enough to keep us going for ages. They let him take some today and said to come back next week for the rest.
It is utterly dry, and burns wonderfully.
The house is beautifully warm. We have got perfume and a mixer and a spare hairbrush.
Life is marvellous.
