I came out to work in the slightly peculiar twilight of this evening’s solar eclipse.
Mark had been interested in this, and we all trotted up the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom, from where we took it in turns to view the crescent sun through a bit of old welding mask.
I had thought that I recalled from previous solar eclipsical experiences that the birds stopped singing, but either the birds in Windermere are of an indifferent disposition or I had made that bit up, because they just carried on as though nothing was happening. I thought this was a bit of a let down, actually, it would have been nice if the world had sunk into an anxious silence for a moment or two, whilst we exhorted the Gods to send the sun back.
They sent it back anyway, despite the fact that not just the birds, but pretty much everybody in Windermere had just carried on regardless, apart from a few individuals who seemed intent on viewing it as they view pretty much everything else, through the screen of a mobile telephone.
I looked through the welding mask and once or twice directly at the sun, even though every newspaper and manufacturer of sunglasses has been exhorting us not to for days and days. Actually it was far better through the welding mask, I could properly see the mysterious dark bit, but when I looked at the sun itself it just looked pretty much as it always does.
You will be pleased to hear that I do not seem to have fried my retinas. They seem to be pretty much the same as usual as well.
Apart from the brief excitement of the solar eclipse it has been an unremarkable day. Mark buzzed off to get a meter installed in his new taxi and I stayed at home to cook things.
I had got to cook things because we are going to go away next week, and I need to ensure that Oliver, Emily, Ritalin Boy and the dogs will not starve to death during our absence.
This meant a very lot of cooking.
I made biscuits, plain ones and the sort of shortbread with chocolate and caramel on the top. I made coffee chocolates. I cooked sausages and a chicken, and finally I turned yesterday’s pan of mince and vegetables into burritos.
I did not do all of this alone. Oliver realised somewhere in the middle of it that I was getting very cross and overloaded, and came to help.
This was because he had overheard me shouting at Mark on the telephone.
Mark had been having the sort of day where he seemed to feel the need to phone a friend every time an occasion arose when he was required to make a decision. I sympathised with this sentiment, but not enough for me to feel very patient about it whilst I was rushing around hurling things into the oven and trying to remember where I had hidden the rice flour.
I lost my temper when I was expected to perform a long-distance weed killer selection because the one he wanted had sold out.
I had booked the meter installation, completed the paperwork, notified the council, completed their paperwork, and felt that my part of the marital bargain had been more than adequately fulfilled. Also I had done sufficient cooking to supply a school canteen until half term and managed the laundry and the dogs as a bit of a sideline.
Oliver thought it might be prudent to be helpful.
He was very helpful indeed. I can safely say that without Oliver’s youthful experience as a pot washer and occasional assistant chef, I would have been sunk.
I would not have made it to work even now.
Fortunately I am here, and I am even beginning to calm down.
I think I might read my book for a while.
