Sunshine is the nicest thing.
It has been sunny. In fact, it is still sunny, even as I write these words. I have been wearing my shorts all day, and I have not been cold at all.
I am feeling disproportionately cheerful in consequence.
The only small fly in my ointment of contentment is Roger Poopy. I have had a Dog Cleaning Day. Once we had been on our walk he was so truly mud-bespattered and revolting that I could not bear the thought of permitting him to walk on the floor, never mind the carpets. I hauled them both up the stairs and dumped them in the bath. This was a horrid wet adventure for all three of us. I had to clean the bath and the mirrors and myself afterwards.
Part of the purpose of this wearisome experience was also to rid myself, and indeed, the whole house, of Roger Poopy’s current unpleasant smell. He does not smell like a dog as much as a pile of dishcloths that have been used to wipe up ancient milk and then left gently humming in a warm wet pile for a month or two.
The thing is, the smell did not go away afterwards. After washing the dogs, the bathroom, their towels and the sofa cover, he still smelled every bit as awful as before.
In the end I looked him up on the mighty Internet. This suggested that he might have a yeast infection. I would know that he had, it explained, helpfully, because he would be scratching a lot and wiping his bottom along the floor.
I cannot think of a better way for him to earn permanent banishment to the garden. Fortunately for him he is not doing any of those things.
Further cyber-investigation informed me that the smell of encrusted fox poo does not usually come off with a single ablution. Usually, it said, it takes several, and sometimes the dog might need a haircut.
Permanent banishment to the garden because a possibility again.
Happily, the day was so gloriously fine that all of the doors and windows were open anyway. I booted the dogs out to lie in the sun in the yard and bark at people walking past, and got on with other things. I took my respectable black clothes to the dry cleaner and cleaned my funeral shoes, so that they will be nicely shiny next time somebody kicks the bucket. Whilst I was at it I dubbined my walking boots, just in case they were thinking about springing a leak. I don’t think they were but you can never be too careful and in any case I could not hold up my head among the dog-emptying fell walkers if I did not know myself to be a paragon of bootly virtue.
Oliver called whilst I was rubbing grease into the seams. He has been having nappy changing lessons. He has got to get good at it because they will be having a test next week. They are proper washable nappies, the terry towelling sort, so they have to be pinned and folded properly, an exercise of which I thoroughly approve. All the same, I doubt they will have been taught the important things about nappy changing, which is that gaffer tape fastens them perfectly well in an emergency, and to stand well back from little boys who always, always have a wonderfully enthusiastic fountain just as you have eased the newly clean nappy into place.
I am sure he will work it all out for himself in the fullness of time.
Once I had finished, and packed everything away, I persuaded Google to play some music and watered the conservatory, singing as I went. I had managed a tunelessly loud rendition of the entire soundtrack of South Pacific before I had finished, because the neighbours in the holiday house had gone out and Mark on the other side has finished his exam marking now, so it did not matter.
After that I was obliged to retire to my office and deal with the bank account and the Inland Revenue and the wage slips and the accounts.
We will not talk about that.
There was more scowling than ought to happen on a sunny day.
I was not sorry to leave it all behind and come out to work.
