Blown film

We have just watched the most astoundingly rubbish film.

We did not go to work. Mark went last night whilst I was at my class. He stayed from six until ten and made four quid. That is a pound an hour, and of course it is not even profit.

I spent the four quid on some broccoli and milk today, and we thought that we could have a clear conscience about not bothering with taxis tonight.

Instead Mark went off installing rural broadband today, and I cleaned the house.

It was the most terrifically windy day. The dogs and I struggled up to the top of the fell, and could hardly stand up when we got there.

Fortunately it had been blowing behind me all the way up, which had made me feel optimistic about my mountain-climbing fitness. I had not anticipated quite how difficult it would be to get back down the slippery fell side on the way back, and even though I leaned into the wind and fought. I had to tack and heave to, with the dogs scuttling after me as well as they could.

When I got home my face had been buffeted to a lively shade of cerise, and my hair was standing straight up on my head and could not be coaxed to lie flat again, so I left it, which might have looked quite astonishing in Sainsbury’s.

I pegged the washing out in the garden for the first time in months, where it flapped and billowed and dried in almost no time. Then I did lots of domestic things like watering the conservatory and mopping the floors and polishing the clock.

I was rushing to try and write a short story that had started bubbling through my head whilst I was scudding down the fell, but it all took so long that I had barely started it when Mark called to tell me that he was coming home and I had to dash downstairs to start shoving things in the oven.

It is my last crime story, and I will finish it tomorrow.

It was splendid for Mark to be home and no need to rush about for work. He put a film on Amazon and we sat in front of it with dinner, which we spoiled by shouting crossly at the film.

It was a supposed-to-be-true story about two people of such monumental stupidity that you would not allow them to have a bath without proper supervision. They set off to drive across Norway, stopped in a blizzard in the middle of the night on a desolate mountain road, and woke up to discover that they were snowed in.

They were very surprised about this.

They waited in their car for twenty four days. This added nothing to the excitement of the film, I have had more adventures at a bus stop.

Between them they failed to have the competence to break a window and get out. They did not know if there were any houses nearby and they made no effort to find out. Eventually she had a baby and then he died. The bloke, not the baby. The baby survived, crying annoyingly at intervals during the rest of the film.

We were unimpressed by his do-it-yourself midwifery as well, you might remember that we have also pulled off this particular feat, although it probably helped that we were in a house not the back of a car. In the end the baby’s mother got out. I would have dug my way out as well. I would not have stayed for twenty four days in a car full of poo and afterbirth with a dead body and nothing to eat.

She ate the afterbirth but not the dead body.

When the credits rolled we thought that they had made a pig’s ear of things from beginning to end and were no great loss to the gene pool.

We are going to have an early night. Mark has just been out to empty the dogs and come back still going on about the uselessness of the people in the film.

If ever I go to Norway I will be very careful not to nod off in my car in a blizzard.

What a lot of twaddle.