I think I might be the happiest diarist in Windermere.
Our cleaner has returned.
I can hardly tell you how pleased I am at this development. This afternoon she wiped away the disgraceful dust and fluff in the bedroom, whilst I got on with writing my assignment.
There are no words for such joy. I had not realised quite how badly I hated doing the cleaning until the wash of relief flooded over me this afternoon when somebody else turned up to do it.
The consequence of this is that I am on the taxi rank, because she did not come as a benevolent free gift, but because of the financial benefit involved, and hence I am going to have to earn some more money before she can come again. I do not mind this in the least. I can sit here and write to you, and sooner or later somebody will come along and give me some money for popping back up to Windermere, or somewhere else in the Lake District. Then I can squirrel it away until I have made enough to get the oven cleaned as well.
Mark, who is largely responsible for the current hideous mess, says that it is worth it not to have me shouting.
There is a very, very lot of mess. He has banged holes in walls, dismantled a shower, bashed holes through floors and ceilings, and spread pipes and fittings everywhere.
Her has learned to be careful with the fittings, because the plastic ones keep turning up chewed, in the dogs’ basket.
He is not at work. He is still plumbing. He is beginning to feel under quite a lot of pressure about this, not least because I have explained, fairly straightforwardly, that I would like to be able to light the fire and nail the house back together before the children turn up in a week or so.
Hot water is not an optional bonus in most homes and I think I would like some, the sort that comes out of the taps and not just the kettle.
Also it is getting cold. It has rained today for practically the entire day, and once or twice we had hailstones.
These factors appear to be combining to make him feel anxious. I am experiencing some mild guilt about this but not very much, perhaps he will feel enthusiastic and inspired to get on with it.
He says he has nearly finished, and of course I believe him.
In other news, I have had a university tutorial today. This happened after I had shouted at Mark to stop making a racket, to stop faffing about in the kitchen, and to go somewhere else and take all of the dogs with him.
They all disappeared, with some relief, I thought. The dogs are not good company when I am talking to people inside the computer, because they keep wanting to get up to see what is going on. Rosie is particularly irritating, because the disappointment at not being allowed is so overwhelming that she lies under my desk and cries, heartbroken, whuffly little sobs. If I relent she bounces all over my knee and the desk with excitement, and knocks everything over.
Mark took them out for a quick emptying so I could talk to my tutor in peace. He is a jolly nice chap, and was interested in the progress of my assignment so far, which was kind of him, although actually I have pretty much finished. Tomorrow, I hope, I will be able to get back to the story I have been trying to write. I am looking forward to that, and better still, everything is dusted already.
You will be pleased to hear that I hung the onions in the front porch, which smells very oniony now, and it was only this afternoon. I took Mark’s jacket out first, because we thought probably it was bad enough turning up at school in the camper van, without smelling as if we had just been on holiday on a French market.
We will be going up to school next week, which is part of the reason for the rush with the plumbing. We have been invited to attend a Parents’ Dinner on Wednesday night, which will be splendid, and so as well as having somebody doing the dusting for me today, next week somebody will be cooking my dinner as well.
It is practically like being a celebrity.
I am going to go away and get on with writing my story. If I can get somebody to publish it I can live like this the whole time.
How marvellous it will be.
