Somehow I am still tired today.
When I mentioned it to Mark on the telephone he said that probably I have got an inadequate diet and should eat more chocolate.
I liked the sound of that, as a diagnosis and remedy it was far more appealing than any old mumbo-jumbo our GP ever comes up with, and I thought I might spend the afternoon making chocolate.
I was not really making chocolate for me, but for Oliver, who actually does need to get fatter, and for whom I manufacture coffee-and-brandy chocolates, with eggs and cream, and high protein banana and peanut milk shake, also with eggs and cream, all of which he consumes in large quantities with enthusiasm, without ever seeming to increase his weight by a single ounce.
Sometimes life is just not fair.
I am busily organising Oliver necessities because our London trip is approaching with great haste. He is not going to accompany us but is remaining at home to be in charge of all livestock and not burning the house down.
With this in mind, after our walk I went into the yard to cut up firewood. I had hoped that the summer would be here by now, and the fire out, but as you know, it is not the case. The Lake District is wet and gloomy, and a chilly damp pervades everything. Washing will not dry, boots are constantly propped over the fire, and there is a small but persistent puddle beside the umbrella stand in the conservatory. Even Guffy, who likes outside better than anywhere, refused to go out this morning, sticking her small pink nose outside the back door and then instantly retreating underneath the table.
The expensively Intestine Friendly Kitten Cat Food seems to be working a bit. I apologise if you are having your breakfast, but the medicinally minded might be interested to hear that the floor is now spattered with a substance which is roughly the almost-lumpy consistency of chocolate which has been left in the door pocket of the car on a warm day, rather than the sort that has been left on the dashboard on a day when the Government is starting to tell old age pensioners that they are going to die of thirst, assuming that they have suddenly become incompetent and forgotten all of the survival skills they learned in the aftermath of the War when nobody warned you not to do anything and you wouldn’t have taken any notice if they had.
Talking of accidental guffs, I had a very upsetting experience when I put the receiver of my desk telephone to my ear this afternoon.
We will not go into details. Suffice to say that it was horrible, and quite distracted me from the nice Indian lady from Microsoft who was explaining that I needed to give her my credit card details.
I digress. I was telling you about cutting firewood in the yard. Actually I was not really going to tell you very much about the actual cutting of the firewood, but about a misfortunate moment when I was tugging at the stack of firewood and half of a very large log fell on my head.
It was not even on the top of my head, where its aftermath could be decently hidden even by my Action Man haircut. It landed on my forehead, and has left behind a large, bluish-coloured lump.
This was not the look for which I had hoped in order to pretend to be a middle class sophisticate during our trip to London.
I am too old to look as if I have been fighting. It is worse than that. I look like the sort of dopey old lady who has absent-mindedly walked into a door.
I have looked at it in a mirror several times now, with the sort of morbid fascination one always feels about one’s injuries, and have been forced to concede that I was not beautiful in the first place, and am considerably less so now.
I have consoled myself with the thought that since I am going to look dreadful anyway, it will save a lot of bother attempting to smarten myself up.
I will just be a mad old lady with a bashed-up face and some bright orange dungarees.
It is London.
Nobody will even notice.
