I am feeling quietly contemplative.
The Peppers came round this morning with some flowers and wine to say how sorry they were about my friend.
This made me cry again, although it was not difficult. I have kept having unexpected memories, which have seemed to produce a sodden handkerchief every time. I even woke up in the night to discover that I was crying. Not noisily, like tiresome three year olds do if they wake up with a full nappy, but just quietly, so that my face was unexpectedly wet and there was an annoying damp patch on my pillow.
I have not yet drunk the wine, although it has been a challenge.
I read some of our old emails this morning over breakfast, instead of my normal breakfast reading, which is still the book about the secrets of the Queen’s wardrobe. They are not exactly interesting secrets, like having Narnia at the back of it, but nevertheless they are fascinating, in a thoughtful kind of way. I am currently on the chapter concerning the different packing methods for her shoes and hats when she goes to Australia.
You never know when such informational treasures might come in handy, sooner or later the Government might let us all out again and then you never know when you will need a suitcase. In any case they seem to do it all brilliantly well. The Queen never looks as though she has accidentally fallen into a box of Christmas decorations and not looked in a mirror when she got out.
She never looks as though she has inadvertently eaten too many puddings at Christmas either, perhaps she has two sizes of clothes, one for January and one for all the rest of the year.
They were quite horrifyingly interesting, the letters between me and my friend, not the Queen’s shoes and hats, obviously. Goodness, we have both had some adventures, all of which were spelled out in appalling technicolour detail in between musings about compost and recipes and observations of wild birds, because it would seem that we were quite dull in between rascally villainous moments.
They made me cry again as well.
I think I had better delete them. I do not want anybody else to find them after I am dead, or even, which would be worse, whilst I am still alive.
After that I spent the day mooching about a bit. I did not feel cheerily enthusiastic enough to embark on any new projects, or even on the sorts of things that a Dutiful Housewife ought to do, although I was guiltily aware that the dresser had become grey and blackened with dust and required my attention. I looked the other way, and thought that maybe the children might one day come downstairs and announce that they felt like doing some helpful housework.
I did not really think that. I made that bit up.
It was a glorious sunny day, in the sort of way that glitters with a malevolent undertone of permafrost. I would have liked to go up to the farm and split up some more logs, but we have still got lots, and the car was sitting in the middle of an ice cube in the dark bit of the alley, so I didn’t.
In fact after a while one of the Peppers popped round to borrow the chainsaw. I have not used the chainsaw for ages, and was embarrassed to discover that I could not remember how to start it, so it was a good job that I had not taken it up to the farm to saw up tree trunks.
I listened to Lucy’s wails about her essay, and Oliver shooting things on his computer, and changed the sheets and cooked Chinese beef for dinner. This worked all right in the end, it is like any other beef but you add soy sauce and sherry instead of red wine and tomato puree.
I washed things and wiped things and you will be pleased to hear that yesterday’s kitchen towel came clean in the end.
Tomorrow I will get on with life again.
Have a picture of Mark.
