I have not had a very impressively successful day.
I have had the sort of day where you dither absent-mindedly from one job to another, doing about half of each one and then being distracted into something else, of which you achieve roughly about half before remembering about something you really should have done ages ago and then trotting off to do that.
The result of this was that I only got round to putting the washing on ten minutes before I went to work.
It wasn’t the Clean Sheets washing, fortunately. I had remembered to do that in the morning, some things are too ingrained to be forgotten.
I did forget to get it out of the machine again, though, and it sat there wetly until almost two o’clock, when I had a frantic panic and dragged it all out.
It was raining, so it had to be draped all over the kitchen, so now it smells of woodsmoke and cooking.
I remembered to take my takings to the Post Office but then forgot to pay our wages, so we will be broke until tomorrow now.
The problem was that I had planned to do some cooking, so that Oliver will not starve to death whilst we are away next week, and we will have some food to take with us to keep our strength up on the long journeys between one bit of France and the next.
I had neglected to consider that there was almost nothing in the house that could be cooked, and so had to start the day, by which I mean after the trek over the fells with the dogs, by going to Booths, where I saw several people who all said So Your House Is On The Market, Then?
Given that the For Sale sign had only been put up ten minutes before I set off I was impressed with such detective work.
The chap had turned up armed with an enormous rubber mallet but in the end screwed the sign to the edge of the flowerbed. I keep going to look at it. It is both scary and exciting, and makes me feel just a bit sick every time I see it. The children all keep saying that they don’t mind us going in the least, so the anxious feeling must be because I don’t want to leave them behind.
I really don’t. I wish they could all come with us.
Having smiled and nodded and explained several times that we might be going to France, which surprised nobody, because it turns out that everybody thinks the UK is Going To The Dogs, I staggered back with armfuls of cheese and yoghurt and bananas only to realise that I had forgotten to eat any breakfast, and was beginning to feel just a bit dopey and confused.
It was three o’clock.
I remembered then that I had forgotten to put the bread maker on, and so clearly would be late for work, even if I put it on straight away, which I did.
I was late for work. The bread maker did not finish until a quarter past six, after which the dough had to be turned into rolls and set to rise before I could cook it.
Eventually I started on the cooking.
I stewed some apples to make apple pies, but got distracted by putting the clean sheets back on the bed, and forgot them, so they turned into a horrible burned mess on the bottom of the pan, which is still soaking even now.
There was hardly time to do anything then. I sliced up onions and garlic and chillis and hurled them into a pan so that at least when I come back to cooking tomorrow somebody who loves me will have done the sore-fingers bit for me and I won’t need to worry about it.
There was not enough time even to wash up. I chucked everything into the dishwasher, which, by the way, was the point at which I remembered I had forgotten to do the washing, so I dashed off to remedy that with some horrible oaths, and then forgot to set the dishwasher off.
When I get home I have got to remember to get the washing out and to set the dishwasher off.
What could possibly go wrong?
