You will see that today, once more, we have a picture.
This is not because I have managed to entice my telephone into pictorial adventures. I took it with Mark’s phone and then emailed it to myself to put on here.
It was such a splendid opportunity that I thought I would save myself a thousand words or so and let you see it for yourselves.
It is Mark’s nuclear reactor. It may not actually be a nuclear reactor, I am a bit hazy about the details. At any rate it is the thing that he has been building in the shed.
He was not very sure about putting a picture of it on here, in case the oil industry magnates come round and shoot him. Everybody knows that this is what happens to genius inventors who create world-saving engines that will solve all of the problems of humanity.
I think James Bond pops round and shoots the oil industry magnates afterwards, but it would be too late for Mark by then.
It is occupying a great deal of his thought in quiet moments. I have stopped asking him what he is thinking about, because the answer is inevitably incomprehensible and probably a bit dull. So far he has invented a gadget that makes water fizz and turn brown. I am unconvinced of the usefulness of this, but we have got a very nice bucket of brown water in the shed, and he is going to pour it into the thing in the picture so that it keeps the conservatory warm.
I might have missed out some of the details but this is probably a good thing in case any oil industry magnates are reading this.
In any case it is keeping him quietly occupied whilst it has been too wet for him to dismantle the engine in the camper van again. Also he is not under my feet.
I have warned him that if it explodes and makes a mess in the back yard I will not be pleased. He thinks that probably it won’t.
We thought today that we would get all of the jobs done in a hurry this morning, after which we thought we would like to do something lovely, to make the day happy.
Hence, once we had cooked a curry for dinner, and dashed about for a while, sweeping and faffing about with laundry, Mark went outside to tiddle about with the nuclear reactor in his shed, and I went upstairs to paint pictures and write stories.
Both of us were very happy at this turn of events, so happy that we both completely forgot about hanging up the second lot of washing, and had to drape the towels over the hot stove and then try and remember not to scorch them.
Mostly they are all right, fortunately they are orange anyway.
I had some preparation to do for tonight’s class, during which we learned how to write a Mills & Boon novel. It sounds like a very lot of hard work, and I think maybe I will not bother. Also it is a very lot more difficult than you might think.
We had to write the start of one in the coffee break. We were told that we had to start with a kidnapped heroine in a runaway carriage, and write about how she meets the hero.
It is all very well sniffing and going: what a doddle, but it has got to be good enough for somebody to want to pay £8.99 to find out what happens next. Given that everybody already knows exactly what happens next this is not at all easy.
By the end of it I was filled with heartfelt admiration for all writers of romantic novels. I shall never ridicule Barbara Cartland again. She has done a jolly good job.
At any rate she earned enough to spend her life swanning around in pink chiffon and not sitting on taxi ranks, which is where I am at this moment.
I am going to go away and consider my career options.
