I am about to go to work.
I am feeling very grumpy.
I have just spent the last two hours writing yet another story about food, this one for the stupid MSt application, and I have pressed the wrong button and the whole stupid thing has disappeared out of my stupid computer. It is lost for ever and I have just wasted ages trying to dig it out, to no avail.
Also Elspeth’s dog has got the most awful wind.
He does not seem to mind this and is lying by my feet, guffing away contentedly, but it is doing nothing for my happiness in the world. I thought I had lost most of my sense of smell in the wake of bat-flu, but regrettably this turns out not to be the case.
Also I have got to go to work very soon indeed, and I do not at all want to. It is cold and uninviting out there in the dark, deserted Lake District theme-park, and I have got to read two books for my course, one of which has not even arrived yet, and the other one of which looks dull.
There. Now you know about all of my woes.
On the cheerful side, the visiting dog is comporting himself considerably better. He has now learned that barging around knocking people over makes him very unpopular, and is now waiting, quietly and courteously, before he ventures to do absolutely anything at all, just in case it might get him into any more unexpected trouble.
Also he was jolly well behaved on our walk this morning. I did not need to bellow at him very much at all. Now that he knows he is merely one of a pack, he is doing exactly what a trainee wolf should, which is to cease his exploratory bouncing at the moment he reaches the right distance from the centre of the pack, which is me, and to wait, waggily, until I am in range again.
This is correct behaviour and would have earned him a Good Dog Sausage, except I have run out, so he had to make do with some admiring noises and having his ears rubbed.
After the walk, which took for ever because Roger Poopy’s father was slow and creaky after yesterday’s long walk, I did the ironing.
This has been hanging over my soul and obliterating my joy in life for several days now.
I put a story about the witch Circe on the Audible storyteller, and gritted my teeth.
The ironing took for ever as well, because there was loads of it. We had to dress presentably in London, of course, it would not do to turn up at the theatre dressed in some worn-out quilted lumberjack shirts and muddy boots. All such Respectable Attire came home and was washed. It has been lying, miserably, in a huge sack on the chair ever since.
I had to iron all of Oliver’s things first because of going back to school, so I did those last week. I was bored with it by the time I had done his, and so gave up, which meant that today just our things were left. All the same there was a very lot, and it was dreadfully crumpled after a week stuffed into a sack.
Even with the story I had had enough by the time I had finished.
When I am a millionaire I will just throw things away when they need ironing. Obviously I would not wish to do anything wickedly bad for the planet so when I say throw things away I suppose really I would just give them to Age Concern, please do not feel that I am irresponsible.
Since I am not a millionaire I can imagine anything I like. If I want to imagine cutting them all up and using them for dusters then I can.
Obviously I have done other things as well as ironing, but the evening is burning away and I have got to go to work.
I am going to take my grumpiness off to the taxi rank.
