Just a short entry tonight, because I can’t offer any more thrilling stories than hot news about tidying the conservatory and mopping the kitchen floor.
Both of these things needed doing. Mark has been tiling the conservatory floor, using the ‘little and often’ method. Actually, ‘little and occasionally’ would probably be nearer the mark. In fact, ‘a couple of tiles every few days’ might be even nearer, because obviously having two jobs makes his tiling time somewhat limited.
Anyway. he made a mess. Obviously he made a mess because it is Mark. Today he spirited away a huge pile of irritating junk which has been cluttering up the table, including eye protectors, several handy sticks, some scissors, a peculiar and unidentifiable electrical item, and several chewed pencils.
It is not Mark who chews the pencils. Mark leaves them on the floor and Rosie does the rest.
We are concerned about Rosie. She has become very co-operative, friendly and mellow, entirely unlike her usual combative, rascally, only-interested-in-Roger-Poopy self. We are hoping that Roger Poopy’s horrid abusive father has not got to her whilst she was in season. We made a point of booting him firmly off her whenever he tried his luck when we were around, and of course Roger Poopy was guarding her virtue with enthusiasm, but of course we have got to go to work sometimes, and so he might quite easily have dived on her in our absence.
Poor Rosie, she will have to sign up for the #MeToo movement. I think she is too young to become a parent, but it is too late for the morning after pill, and the vet in Windermere ought to be retiring on to his yacht by now given the cost of animal healthcare. She will just have to accept a similar fate to a Mississippi teenager, should she be in that misfortunate state.
I hope she isn’t. Roger Poopy’s father is such a villain.
Other than that little concern, the day has passed without incident, as well it should because we did not get up until lunchtime. This meant that there was no time for anything other than a stroll in the park with the dogs, and rushing off to work.
I have still not finished ironing Oliver’s school clothes, and he will be going away very soon now.
Two weeks and he will have departed for Canada.
The summer seems to be flashing past me like an English lady footballer with an open goal in front of her.
They have done so very well.
