I have found, rather to my surprise, that I have been so tired today that I could barely achieve anything at all.
Mark has just called to assure me of his continued existence. He has been doing courses in Aberdeen. Insurance companies make oil rigs explain everything as if they were employing a particularly inattentive reception class to weld their girders back together, and so Mark has occupied the whole day being exhorted not to forget his hard hat and safety glasses, and to remember which member of the team is responsible for the correct issue of the Hot Works permit.
I have seen some of these courses when he has done them online at home. They are an awful lot of faffing about, usually in an American accent.
Mark said that when he was finished he was so tired he could hardly remember his own name, never mind the correct protocol for applying for a Hot Works Permit, and he has said goodnight and gone to bed early.
I have not gone to bed early because of being on the taxi rank, but I made up for it by having a sleep this afternoon.
I realised at about three o’ clock that I was actually too tired to stand up, never mind get on with the afternoon’s cooking that I had planned for myself. I collapsed into a chair with a cup of tea, and after a little while Oliver suggested that I went back to bed.
Rarely have I felt so enthusiastic about somebody else’s ideas for my afternoon activity. I staggered up the stairs and pulled the curtain halfway across the open window. I had thought I would lie there for a little while, enjoying the curtain fluttering in the gentle breeze and the birdsong and warm scents drifting in from the front garden. I thought after the first minute that probably I could enjoy it just as well with my eyes closed, but somehow I forgot to pay attention to any of it, and the next thing that happened was an alarm going off and the day had disappeared.
I had not at all expected this, and it takes me by surprise every time. One of the tiresomely irritating things about getting old is that normal activities wear you out a lot more quickly. A few days of house-construction labours has left me feeling disconcertingly doddery and thinking longingly about early retirement. I have always planned to carry on working until I am seventy, but I am beginning to suspect that it might have to be fairly undemanding work.
I think I had better cross Builder off my list of things I might like to do when I grow up.
We had a pleasant stroll over the fells this morning, and then Oliver emerged to come with me for shopping in Booths. We have been dining on absolute rubbish whilst at Lucy’s, eating for speed and convenience rather than usefulness. Mostly we have been trying to fuel ourselves with shop-bought bread and slabs of butter. The bread seems to have been made of sponge laced with sugar, and we were just as hungry when we had eaten it, so we have been desperately trying to keep our energy levels up with chocolate.
It has been very nice indeed to get home and eat fruit, and porridge with sliced bananas and dollops of thick Greek yoghurt, and apricot cake, and home-made burritos dripping with melted cheese. Good food makes life very satisfying, and so this morning I went shopping to replenish our stores to do an afternoon’s cooking.
I could not manage the cooking and fell asleep instead.
It does not matter. There is always tomorrow.
