I am done for the day.
That is to say, I am done except for the evening tasks of writing seven hundred words in here, earning enough money for us to go out tomorrow night, emptying the dogs and washing the last of the day’s dishes, those brought home from a taxi picnic.
I do not have to clean the bathroom. Mark will be home this evening, and he will do that when he has finished his shower.
I will probably have to do it again in the morning, because he never polishes the taps properly. Indeed, I suspect that he does not polish them at all.
I do not make a fuss about this, well, not often, because I am of a tolerant and understanding nature. You will perhaps have thought this already.
I have rushed about for the whole of the day.
It was Clean Sheets Day, obviously, but even if it had not been I might have washed them anyway, because of Mark coming home. Certainly there was no disgraceful possibility of shirking off from the rest of the day’s tasks, like the dusting and hoovering the stairs, because I do not wish him to think I have been an idle custodian in his absence. I do not think for a minute that he would notice if there was dog hair on the stairs, indeed, he is unlikely to notice if there was dog hair in the bed or even blocking up the plug hole in the bath, but I would know, and my life would be darkened by the inescapable knowledge of my failure.
Hence I have occupied the day doing everything thoroughly. I went to Booths and purchased all of the things he likes to eat. Well, I purchased bread and sausages, because sausage sandwiches are one of those marvellous foods that are successful at any meal. You can eat them at absolutely any time of day and not feel in the least deprived. I shoved a couple of dozen in the oven along with some burgers, and felt virtuous.
I even bought some flowers. Mark likes the idea of having flowers in the house, although he only ever remembers to buy them when he is feeling guilty about something, so I thought we would have some flowers that were the happily unassailable product of a clear conscience.
I have almost got a clear conscience. The house is clean and tidy. It nearly went wrong when I thought I would make some biscuits, because Mark eats a lot of biscuits, and Oliver has taken the last of the tin with him, but the day wore on at an absolutely cracking pace, and I ran out of time. Then a small miracle happened, in the way that occasionally the Gods do nice things, when I went to hoover the front hall and discovered a box of biscuits on the doormat.
I was quite astonished. They were a splendid surprise, and a present from my cousin Claire.
I had not done anything remotely deserving of a present, and so I was touched and very pleased. Also they were very pretty, and decorated like flowers, and so they look very nice next to the real flowers and the fruit bowl.
I swept and wiped and dusted, and threatened the dogs with all sorts of terrible consequences if anybody was sick on the kitchen floor whilst I was out at work. An entire four storeys of clean house can be ruined by such a misadventure, especially if somebody walks in it.
After that I came out to work.
Oliver called. He has had his first day. They have had lots of instructions about how to behave when you are a Norlander. His uniform is comfortable and he has had enough to eat, and he has got his laundry done.
He thinks it is going to be all right.
