I had a truly terrible moment just now when the site refused to let me in.
Fortunately it changed its mind after a few moments, and here I am, slightly disconcerted but here all the same, and wondering if it will be all right for the next few days or if I am going to be reduced to the telephone and the web hosts again.
They were nice and helpful but I can think of more exciting ways of spending an afternoon, even if I did manage to read all of Matt Hancock’s inspirational WhatsApp messages whilst I was on hold.
I have not had a very exciting day today.
I have been up to my eyeballs in nuns, yet again. It has all got to be handed in very, very soon, and I can tell the worry is starting to get to me because I keep thinking how lovely it would be to run away in the camper van.
I packed everything back into it yesterday, just in case, although I know we can’t run away. Certainly we can’t until the assignment is finished, and almost certainly not even then, because Mark is very busy with a rural broadband installation that is going to take him all of next week. Once I have finished my assignment I will have to do some of the other things that I have been ignoring whilst I am writing it, things like shopping.
I will have to do this soon otherwise we will be having fried dogs for dinner in the near future. Actually they will probably pop off first because we ran out of dog food this afternoon. I gave them a yoghurt that Oliver had left behind in the fridge and that nobody else will ever eat, but they looked at it with a look of disdain that reminded me exactly of all the rest of us when presented with yoghurts, obviously the dogs aren’t ever going to be middle-class either.
Poor Roger Poopy is very unhappy anyway. He is grieving for the loss of his wonderfully warm seagull-flavoured coat, complete with its resident wildlife, and he will barely lift his nose up from his cushion. He ignored the crumbs out of the bottom of the biscuit tray this morning, and Rosie ate his share as well. He watched her and sighed mournfully, before burrowing back into his cushion again.
I had begun to wonder if he was actually ill, until we chanced upon Skip the whippet in the Library Gardens this afternoon. Roger danced all about him, barking his head off, because sometimes Skip plays exciting rushing about games switch which Roger joins in. Skip didn’t want to rush about this afternoon, but clearly there was nothing wrong with Roger other than a miserable self-consciousness of his unseasonable nakedness.
They curled up irritatingly under my desk all day whilst I puzzled over script formatting and what to do about nuns not going through doors noisily enough for radio. I was despairingly convinced that the whole thing was awful and was about to bin it when one of the other students sent a message asking if I wanted to See Hers So She Could See Mine.
This is acceptable once you have become a student, even for nuns, so I dispatched it across. Hers was so cynically clever and comical that I despaired even further, and wondered whether I ought to get Mark to write to the course tutor to say I had contracted leprosy or been left in a coma by a tragic car accident, but to my astonishment she wrote back telling me that she thought it was clever and included layers of depth and irony that she had appreciated very much.
I had not noticed these but of course I pretended they were deliberate and accepted the compliment with a graceful airiness that belied the massive relief that washed over me.
I am almost done. I will probably finish it in time for the deadline, and even if it isn’t superbly polished I will not care because I have had enough of nuns. I have got a story about nuns on the Audible book thing, a book about nuns in the door pocket, and we watched a film about nuns the other night, the one that sent Mark to sleep even though it was only half past eight.
It is another one to cross off the list of Things I Don’t Want To Be When I Grow Up.
