And so the weekend is upon us once again.
I am perfectly well aware that it is not grammatically correct to start a sentence with And, still less a whole diary entry, but since it is my diary I can write it in any way I choose. I don’t generally choose to split infinitives or end sentences with prepositions or all of the other howlers that beset grammatical pedants every time they open the mighty Internet, but tonight I am feeling contrary.
And so I shall do what I like.
In any case I thought the inappropriate use of the misplaced conjunction could be said to leave the reader with a feeling of continuity, the feeling that even though the rest of the world is erupting into a mayhem of violence, economic chaos, prejudice, political stupidity and Marks and Spencer’s horrible Christmas shopping advertisement, these pages remain unchanged.
Mostly they are unchanged because I can’t think of anything new to say really, but I like to think I am plugging along in a long tradition of dullness, eight years, actually, which is the length of time I have been appearing alongside your breakfast.
I am pleased to say that one of the happiest side effects of this is that nobody ever asks me what I have been doing, since anybody who ever wants to know can just look on the mighty Internet and find out. For the last eight years I have been spared the wearisome business of making conversation. I can simply arrange my face in an expression of interest and settle down to listen.
This is not in the least ironical, by the way. It is by far and away my very favourite way of having a social encounter. When somebody says: How are you? I can never come up with anything more creative than Err, Fine.
I had a brief social encounter today, when Elspeth popped around for coffee, which was splendid. She is having regular massages in Bowness in order to relieve her work-related tension, and has taken to coming to see me afterwards. I like this because of the shirk involved and the opportunity to think about somebody else’s problems. Mostly they are more interesting than my own, almost all of which would be resolved if only I could win the Lottery.
Elspeth’s arrival interrupted our continually progressing troubles about Lucy’s house. The nice one we liked has been sold to somebody else, about two hours before we emailed them yesterday. There is another house that we don’t like quite as much but it has got a parking space and a garden and other useful qualities, like a roof and running water, so I suppose it will do, except that presumably somebody else will buy that one even if we offer double the asking price and volunteer to bake the vendor a cake. House purchasing is complicated.
We are going to find out more about that one tomorrow. Frankly at the moment Lucy would buy a tent in the middle of a traffic roundabout if it would be easy and uncomplicated, and I have got every sympathy. Oliver is clubbing together with her to help the process along. I am grateful for this because we are in our usual state of financial embarrassment, so it is a good thing that they have grown up to be fiscally responsible.
Other than these excitements my day has been bereft of adventure and stuffed to the seams with dullness. I have brought in firewood and swept up the resulting sawdust-trail, there might be something to be said for gas central heating, no wonder they call them clean fuels. I have hoovered and pegged up washing, which actually dried in the garden due to some unseasonably clement weather.
I am now at work.
In fact, this diary entry is, for the sake of continuity, exactly like every other.
