I thought I might write to you before work, because it is tiresome to be endlessly interrupted, although admittedly unlikely that I would be, but I have discovered that it is just as tiresome to be endlessly fending off a small but determined kitten interruption.
It has found all sorts of ways to be a nuisance during the last paragraph, from drinking my painting water to pooing in the plant pot, after which it returned to march across the keyboard with the happy confidence of one who knows she is adorable.
I have customers who are equally annoying, but also believe that it is all right for the same sort of reason, usually because they have got long blonde hair and a leopard skin printed mini skirt. I hoofed one of these out last night who explained, under pressure, that her intention had been to be taken back to Kendal whereupon she would go into her house, wait for her mobile telephone to charge up, and then, eventually, return to the taxi to use it to pay for her fare.
I declined her custom, fortunately before we had left Bowness. I imagine that some rather more susceptible taxi driver, or possibly one with a phone charger in his car, might have taken her in the end, because she was not still there at the end of the night.
I declined to stroke the kitten as well, being busy typing, at which point, aggrieved, it bit me.
I have occupied much of the day with the unpleasant aftermath of the horrible clock change. I think this is a ridiculous and loathsome idea, and any political party who promised to scrap it would certainly get my vote, even if they were the brainless but probably well-intentioned Green Party.
First, of course, I didn’t wake up until half past eleven, after which I had to spend some considerable time staggering around changing all of the clocks to the newly correct time. This took ages because we have a lot of clocks. I like clocks, because of the ticking noise, and the contented safe friendliness of their familiar faces. Several of them need quite a bit of attention anyway, because they are the wind up variety, and hence need my services every day, twice a day in the case of the cuckoo clock, which needs to be higher on the wall because the pendulum touches the floor too soon.
Whilst occupied with this type of domestic minutiae, I changed the lightbulbs that have extinguished themselves, one of which was in Oliver’s room and involved a great deal of swearing and balancing on a wobbly stool. This was because it was the sort of light fitting that has three or four bulbs which have been thoroughly stuck into the ends of several tube shaped shades, and to get them out you need a rubber sticky thing, for which I had to hunt about in all of the cobwebs and nasty sticky patches underneath the kitchen sink. I pulled hard on the rubber sticky thing and the glass part of the bulb came off, causing me almost to topple off the stool, and then I couldn’t get the bulb out.
I do not know who invented this sort of electrical nightmare. They would most certainly not get my vote for anything, and I am never, ever going to be stupid enough to purchase this sort of light fitting ever again, no matter how modern and stylish the picture on the box.
I got the bulb out and the new one jammed in in the end, and then had to balance on the side of the bath for the other one. It is a jolly good job I do all of this standing-on-one-leg-with-my-eyes-shut practice that the august Daily Telegraph insists upon. Apparently there is something about standing on one leg in the dark that makes you live longer. I am sixty now, so it has obviously worked pretty well so far.
I felt as though I had been thoroughly domestic when I had finished, which was just as well because there was absolutely no day left by then, although it looked as though there should be because it wasn’t nearly dark.
I do not at all like the changed clocks. I am going to have to waste the daylight going to work in it and everybody will be able to see that I have not cleaned the inside of the taxi.
I am at work now.
It is still daylight.
It is all wrong.
