We have clement weather at last.
The horrible cold wind that has penetrated my very underwear for the last few weeks, the lashing, biting rain, all of it has ceased.
Today was mild, and only a bit cloudy, and – well – clement.
That is to say, it wasn’t cold.
I was pleased about this. I opened the conservatory door and the bedroom window and let the not-too-chilly breeze blow the damp-heavy, musty winter fog out of the house until everywhere was beginning to smell fresher.
This needed to happen.
I had discovered why Guffy the kitten had seemed to be getting better.
It was because I was looking in the wrong places.
When I checked this morning, inspired by a whiff of nasty odour, there was a small lake of cat accident underneath the sofa, and another underneath the drawers in the living room.
It was truly revolting.
I think we will conclude that it was beyond words, which will save me having to dream some up which do justice to its smelly dreadfulness, and will also save you having to read them.
I scrubbed it all out. I disinfected and sprayed it all with some enzyme stuff that is supposed to dissolve any last remaining horrors, and then left it to dry.
Later on I hoovered it, after which I dismembered and scrubbed out the hoover.
It was not very nice at all. Even the rubber gloves did not feel sufficient barrier between me and its slimy vileness, and I washed my hands again and again.
Eventually it was done, and then I mopped the kitchen and the conservatory just to make sure I hadn’t missed any further splodges, and it turned out there were quite a few.
I am trying not to think about what this augurs for poor Guffy’s future.
Apart from that, I scrubbed out my taxi. This was not because anybody had been having accidents in it, but as a present for myself so that I would have a shining clean working place for the bank holiday. I put a new book in it, one of Mark’s about soldiers in the SAS, and squirted perfume on the seats, and I am happy to tell you that after a day filled with cat poo, coming to work was a brightly wonderful experience.
The book is rather splendid, by the way. I have finished the one I was listening to, and am now listening to one which is considerably less gripping, about ways of gathering data on the mighty Internet in order to enable people to make sensible decisions. I am not quite sufficiently bored to switch it off, and I am still learning things from it, but this might not last for very much longer. The SAS are far more interesting, if probably unhinged.
I will conclude by telling you that Oliver is back, and his return was very nearly a disaster.
I had not been in his bedroom whilst he was away, and today, just as I was getting ready to leave for work, I got fed up of seeing his clean washing in a neatly folded pile at the bottom of his stairs, and took it up to his room.
It was a very good job that I did, because he had left the door open, and Guffy had been there first.
She had been on his bed.
Once again, let us imagine there are no words.
Actually there were rather a lot of words, none of which I would probably repeat in front of my mother.
I tore the sheets off the bed and dragged them downstairs and into the yard, where I scrubbed them with disinfectant and the yard brush, before shoving them into the washing machine on a boil wash.
I rushed back upstairs and put clean sheets on his bed, after which I was late for work despite all of my careful food-preparations of the last few days.
Fortunately tonight is quiet, so it didn’t matter too much.
I shut the cat and the dogs in the conservatory when I came out to work. She can poo in the flower beds, nobody will mind about that.
You can have too many surprises in one day.
