Well, I am still listing like mad.
Today had a more timely start, due to a confused nightmare in which I was trying to run away from somebody along a very sandy beach. As you might imagine, this slowed my progress down considerably, and I had just reached a point of frantic panic when the kindly Sleeping Gods poked me in the ribs and I woke up.
It was only ten to nine, and I lay there for a few minutes, huffing and being pleased that I was not, after all, about to meet with some unspecified seaside disaster.
After that I could no longer ignore the Call of the List, and crawled into life.
There were, of course, dozens of things on the list that demanded my attention, but I took the dogs out first, and we had our hike over the fells. It has become seasonably chilly today, with terribly cold weather forecast for next week, and the possibility of snow.
There is not snow yet, and it isn’t even freezing, although it is looking very much as though it might. I always throw my bedroom window wide open for a little while in the mornings, but I closed it again quickly today when I realised I could see my breath in a misty white cloud as soon as I leaned out.
When I got back I did the important things, like returning my about-to-be-overdue library books and posting my letters. These are small tasks that always give me a disproportionate sense of virtue. Only a real grown-up takes their library books back on time and is sufficiently organised to be in possession of stamps.
Those jobs were on the list as well, because it would be such a waste of time to spend half an hour on a job with nothing to cross off afterwards.
After that I bounced up the stairs to clean the children’s floor and the attic. The attic has not been cleaned for ages, and I have used it a lot, for all of my sewing and ironing activities, which regular readers will remember have occupied some considerable time over the last weeks.
However my snipped-off threads and discarded bobbins faded into insignificance beside the leavings of Lucy’s cats.
They consider the attic as being their personal territory, and glare at me when I come up to join them. They had been sleeping on the bed, which was utterly covered in cat fur. So was the carpet.
I can’t understand how they are not both bald. There was enough cat hair to fill the hoover twice.
Fortunately I have met the cats before, and so I had prudently covered the bed with an old quilt cover, and underneath it was as pristine as ever. I felt very smug about this foresight.
When I had done hoovering I emptied the hoover and washed it all out. This is another very responsibly grown-up thing to do. I washed the filters and all of the plastic bits, and set them to dry over the fire.
When it was drying, virtuously, I set to my favourite job of the day. I was disproportionately excited about this, which suggests that my life has become uneventfully dull lately, and perhaps I should consider getting out more.
I made the mince pie mix.
This was really not very difficult. I have had tons of dried fruit soaking in brandy for ages and ages now, and it was a simple matter of scraping it out of the bucket and into the mixing bowl and stirring in suet. Then I ladled it into clean jars and sealed them, after which I washed out the jar drawer and left it tidy.
I would definitely cost more than a couple of rubies by now, I can tell you.
All of that done, I could settle down to a peaceful afternoon of Advent calendar painting and listening to my story. Those things are on the List as well.
I am at work now.
Rosie is not going to last very much longer. Another few days and her poopies will be entering into the world. I have put a clean cover on the dog basket by way of maternity care, although I do not think it will be much good, because Roger Poopy thinks that the dog basket is his, and Rosie has to wait to get in until he is asleep.
What a surprise he will have.
