I am not exactly at work. I am in the place where work would be if there was any. I am sitting here hopefully but without very much success.
I do not really mind this, although I would rather be getting along with my painting.
I was going to do some more painting today but felt a moral obligation first to complete the dusting and hoovering, after which there was no time left for painting.
I was grumpy about this.
Still, it has been a good day.
In fact has been turned into a good day by an unexpected contribution from Oliver, who appeared home from work last night bearing two enormous boxes, one of sliced roast beef, the other of roast pork. It had not been eaten at the end of the day, he explained, and was surplus to requirements.
Not only was it a magnificent gift, it had been superbly cooked by Ginge, who is the chef at the Albert, and whose praises are regularly sung by replete taxi customers. On sampling the beef, we understood why, it was excellent.
This morning I spent absolutely ages sorting it all out into a dozen bags. There is far too much to eat now, and so I shoved most of it into the freezer, which is looking very satisfactorily full now. It will make pies and sandwiches and can be fried with rice and Mark’s home-grown garlic and onions, and will last for ages.
Roger Poopy and Rosie had the fatty bits and the leftover corners, which made their day a good one as well. It has been smelling so marvellous that Rosie has been leaving patches of excited dribble all over the floor ever since it arrived, and she was so thrilled when some of it landed in her bowl she fell over her own feet in her determination to get there before Roger Poopy.
I had no words for my appreciation, and sent Ginge some grateful chocolate shortbread in acknowledgement. Oliver said that today was Ginge’s day off, but he would probably come in anyway, to make sure that nothing went wrong whilst he wasn’t looking.
I am more pleased than I can say. We will be eating beef cooked by a master for the next few weeks, instead of my own cheap cuts hurled indifferently into a frying pan and sizzled to the consistency of shoe leather. That is Hoggs shoe leather, none of your squidgy Clarks rubbish.
Note to self. I have not yet bought Oliver any school shoes. He needs shoes and socks. I will have to organise that very soon.
I wish I could wear shoes and socks, but still can’t get them on. For some inexplicable reason there is a patch on the end of my recently-squished toe which feels absolutely icy cold. When I touch it with my fingers it just feels like everywhere else, but in my inner soul it feels as though somebody is pressing a piece of ice to the end of it. Also I still cannot bend it. I have been trying and trying, but it is completely ignoring my increasingly impatient mental instructions. Peculiarly I thought I had done it this morning. I was exhilarated to feel it curl up, obediently, just the way it always used to, but when I looked down it had not moved at all, and was lying on the end of my foot as rigid and unbending as a Just Stop Oil protester on the M25.
I am keeping Mark regularly updated on its inflexible progress as well, he is as gripped as I imagine you must be. Still it is my diary and I would like to be able to look back one day with a rueful smile, and say to myself: That was before it dropped off, of course.
Oliver and the youthful not-yet-Mrs. Oliver are off to Manchester tomorrow, where they have booked themselves two nights in the magnificent Midland. They are going to see The Heathers, which is one of these modern musicals that appeals to young people, I am not feeling in the least left out at not being included.
We are going to have an exciting day as well, because we are going to go and get some new tyres for my taxi.
Never let it be said that young people have all the adventures.
