I have been painting.
That is, I have not been painting walls and ceilings, although some of ours could do with it. Mark gave the bathroom ceiling a first coat of paint probably around about June, and has never had any time since to do anything about the second coat.
Of course I am a perfectly functional human being and could get on and do it myself, but somehow I don’t ever seem to have had the time either, and in any case I haven’t got the first idea what he did with the paint. Even if he had left it in the middle of my dressing table I probably wouldn’t have got round to it, and so I am afraid the bathroom ceiling is going to have to remain in a state of shameful incompleteness. It is one of the nice things about getting older that I really don’t care about this very much, certainly not enough to go and hunt for a ladder.
I have been painting the Advent calendars. This is my seasonal project, and regrettably this year I have cut it so very fine that I would be astonished if they are finished before Easter, never mind in time for Christmas. I have got seven of them to paint, which means that every little detail has got to be painted seven times. Usually by the seventh time I have either finally managed to get it right or have got slapdash because I am sick of it.
Apart from the uncomfortable awareness of time running out, I am quite enjoying the actual painting. I have got the third Wolf Hall book on the story thing, and am listening to it with the greatest of pleasure whilst I paint. I have already read this, of course, it was one of those magnificent books that I ordered from Amazon in order that it would arrive on the day of its release, after which I saved it for ages, as a pleasure yet to come.
Life is always nicest when you know that there is a good book waiting to be read, it is a dreary moment when they are all gone and no wonderful literary adventures are sitting excitingly on the bookcase. At the moment I am reading the most recent of the Cormoran Strike books. I am reading it in bed, as slowly as possible, so that I don’t finish it before the next one is released, so I hope she hurries up and gets on with it.
Apart from the painting the day has gone almost exactly as usual. I have taken the dogs out…and there was an unexpected pause there, where I was about to write And Hung The Washing. Then to my panic-stricken horror it occurred to me that I had not hung the washing at all, and a quick glance at the empty drying rack confirmed this.
Swearing dreadfully, and worrying secretly about early-onset dementia, I dashed downstairs to empty the washing machine, which I am relieved to tell you I had at least managed to switch on.
It was an important load of washing as well, because I do not wash all my clothes daily now, because there is only me. That is to say, everything gets washed before it is worn again, because I can’t bear the slightly slippery-feeling of putting something on for a second day, and I don’t care if things do get worn out faster. What I mean is that now I am alone in the world it takes me a couple of days to fill the washing machine.
Hence I have now run out of clean clothes, so I will have to get this lot dry.
Obviously I haven’t actually run out of clean clothes, we are not quite that impoverished. I mean that I will have run out of scruffy clothes, and will have to start wearing the ones that I save for smart occasions.
I do not want to wear these because I do not in the least wish them to become covered in paint and sawdust and bleach splashes, which is the normal daily outcome for most of my garments.
Hence I have draped everything over the stove and hoped that it will all dry before the next time I need to get dressed. This will not be until tomorrow morning, so there is plenty of time, I hope.
If not I will be the Lake District’s first nudist dog walker in the morning.
I can only hope the sun shines.
