I am having a night off.
It is not a real night off because I promised I would cover a booking for somebody else who was also having a night off, and so I am dashing off out in an hour to collect some people from the station.
I am by myself. Mark is still at home but he is over at his shed, bashing things off the engine in the new taxi.
All the same it has been a brilliant night off.
I had got to the point of complete despair about my life. There are never enough hours in the day to do even all the things I am actually supposed to do, still less all the things that I would just like to do but rarely get round to. By the time I have spent eight hours asleep, eight hours at work, two hours emptying dogs and then several hours cramming in all of the other tedious rubbish like having a shower and hanging up the laundry and making taxi picnics, the days disappear with a whoosh and a bang and a puff of green smoke, like the villain in the pantomime or the taxi inspector.
Today I could not bear it any more, and decided to shirk.;
The day seemed to have crumbled away into completely useless interludes. I occupied these with all sorts of impossibly dull administrative burble, like hunting out the prescriptions so that we could order some new glasses and applying for new parking permits.
I discovered in the process that all of the tiresome holiday cottages around us are not supposed to have residents’ parking permits, and they should be parking in the car park. This made me scowl, because it is a jolly nuisance that the road is endlessly clogged up with visitors’ cars. I felt like writing to the council and complaining, but I don’t suppose I will really. I do not want to turn into a grumbling old biddy, and it could happen very easily if I only let myself. It is better to sigh and think about something nice.
After that I paid our wages and the tax, ordered some new floor mats for the new taxi, wrote to the council and to the accountant, accidentally purchased some overpriced champagne glasses on eBay about which I had to apologise to Mark afterwards, not that he cares because he likes champagne as well, and reorganised Mark’s new telephone so that it will do some of the things telephones are supposed to do these days, like play music and read bedtime stories.
In such cheery occupations I whiled away the unforgiving minutes of my God-given gift of briefly transient existence on our glorious planet.
After that I went to Booths.
I am pleased to announce that I had a happily triumphant moment when I discovered that they had had a delivery and once again were stocking lettuces and yoghurts on their shelves. Goodness, it brightened my day. It is always a small worry when I can see the yoghurt shelf slowly emptying in the fridge, with the uneasy knowledge that all that is on offer in Booths is a small, untruthful notice promising that it will be Back In Stock Soon.
Today there was yoghurt, and my porridge is saved for another week.
I only really like one sort of yoghurt. Actually I like lots of yoghurts, but there is one that is my very favourite. It is especially good for me because it costs £3.75 for a tub and hence I am always careful not to eat too much of it. It is helping me to not be fat.
By the time I had done all of that stuff it was time to start getting ready for work, but I hadn’t done any of the things that really needed doing, like the weekly dusting project, and eventually I thought I would write myself a sick note and not bother.
Dear Sarah. I am sick of going to work. Please can I have the night off? Love from Sarah.
Dear Sarah. You are fired. Love from Sarah.
Fortunately I am not allowed to be fired any more because of Angela Rayner and her new employment laws, so I could take the night off with a clear conscience.
I put clean sheets on all of the beds, including the ones used by Rocket Scientist. I cleaned all of the bathrooms and hoovered and dusted, I emptied the bins and wound all the clocks up and could not be bothered to make a proper dinner so I had chocolate instead.
I am trying not to think what a wicked person I must be.
I did not want to do any of these things really. Actually I would have liked to paint the Advent calendars and edit my stories, but I can now console myself with the knowledge that tomorrow is a completely empty day. There is no need to dust anything, or write to the council about anything, or even look at champagne glasses.
Tomorrow I can do all sorts of things.
I am looking forward to it very much.
