I am pleased to be able to tell you that my spirits are considerably improved today.
This was partly helped by sleeping for ten hours last night. I went to bed after writing in these pages, and knew utter oblivion until the sun was high in the sky, after which I took the dogs for an unkindly brief emptying, and then jacked the taxi up to detach the poor rusted remains of its battered exhaust.
That makes it sound remarkably simple. I have glossed over the bit where I realised I did not have the first idea how to work the hydraulic jack, and had to wipe the oil off the instructions and squint, whilst experimentally wagging the handle about.
Anyway, it worked, and once the car had risen magnificently above the ground, I could get the exhaust off with almost no difficulty at all. Indeed, such is the wonderfulness of our modern-day high-speed culture, when I came back from the Post Office a little while later, a brand new shiny exhaust had materialised right beside it in the back yard.
It had not given birth. The Autoparts stork had visited. I had, in my exhaust-free state, spoken despairingly to Mark on his oil rig and explained the difficulty, and he had promptly telephoned Autoparts for a replacement.
It still felt rather miraculous.
I am in fact at work now, without an exhaust. This is actually not much worse than any night at work recently, because quite obviously the exhaust had such a massive hole in it that it was probably not functioning especially well anyway. Certainly the taxi seems no noisier than usual, although I am being rather careful to keep the windows closed in case passengers notice a certain throaty grumble and an aroma of exhaust fumes.
On the positive side, the terrible squeak has gone. This is something about which I can be very pleased. It was a very tiresome noise, so there has been no great loss without some small gain.
After having successfully dismantling my taxi I was so very pleased with myself that in fact my spirits soared, and I was able to continue with my day’s tasks with a veritable song on my lips, and I pegged the washing on the line with a lightness of heart.
It is Clean Sheets Day, in case you had forgotten.
This is probably just as well, because Mark will be coming back tomorrow, and it would be terrible if he were instantly homesick for his pristinely laundered oil rig bunk. Indeed, when I spoke to him this evening he explained that he had had a double helping of pudding at dinner tonight, to tide him over until he goes offshore again, and is served properly hot, two-course dinners once more.
I have got some sausages out of the freezer in preparation for his return.
I scrubbed everywhere clean, and watered the conservatory, noticing, with some alarm, that the tiresome geranium has become so large you could practically hang a swing from its boughs. I am a foot smaller than Mark, but even I was having to duck underneath it to get into the kitchen, and when I stood back and looked, I realised that I could no longer see the kitchen door behind it.
It has grown upwards to such an extent that it is pressing itself against the conservatory roof, and has reached out until it fills the whole end of the house. If ever we decide to cut it down I imagine we will need the services of a lumberjack.
I spent some time trying to restrain it, without much success. Mark will just have to crawl underneath it.
As a final note, I am pleased to be able to inform you that Oliver has been offered a place at Norland. He messaged to tell me this afternoon.
We do not know yet if he will choose it. We are waiting to hear what everybody else offers to him.
How very exciting to be young.
