We are still trying to get the taxis through their MOT tests.
These are booked for tomorrow, and in consequence it has been an action-packed day, by our standards at least.
We went over to the farm this morning, partly to faff about with wheels and brakes, and partly because we needed to talk to Mark’s sister about division of firewood.
The shed is stacked with firewood, some of which we will be taking and some of which Mark’s sister will be keeping. We walked all around it this morning and discussed the relative merits of old fence posts and split pine and damp ash. This is a very grown-up thing to be doing, imagine explaining to your ten year old self that one day you would be gravely interested in this topic.
We came to a very amicable arrangement indeed, in which a very great deal of warm-living-room was exchanged for some future dry stone walling. She will probably have to nag us to do this, because of us never getting around to anything, but at the moment we are very pleased and full of good intentions, because of another winter when we will not only not freeze to death, but be warm and contented, which is a happy future to contemplate. There is no feeling nicer than a plentiful stack of firewood.
I went home after that whist Mark occupied himself with taxi worries. I went to the shops, and then to the library, which was splendid, because of a nice chat to the library ladies and some new books.
I am reading a book about the Marines in Afghanistan at the moment, Number One Daughter was doing things there with them at the time of the book, and I keep looking for her on the pictures but so far haven’t found her, although there was a surprising picture of some Marines pooing in buckets.
It is not difficult to believe that I have not found any pictures of Number One Daughter in Afghanistan, as even when I have seen pictures that I knew were her I couldn’t tell, she was just a very small soldier underneath a colossal hat with an oversized gun. Also I do not think that even under battle conditions she would have allowed anybody to photograph her doing a poo in a bucket.
It is a good book, although alarming in retrospect, it is a relief to have been the parent of a soldier who did not get shot, there are obviously advantages to being very small.
After the library I went home to do some post-weekend tidying up. There was a massive pile of pots to be washed, and Oliver’s school things to be washed and dried ready for the post tomorrow, and Roger Poopy has taken to emptying out his food dish if he gets bored.
Since a major part of his diet is pellet-shaped dried food this is an awful nuisance, because it is terribly uncomfortable to stand on, and I stood on it several times.
Also we gave the dogs some leftover rice the other day, which they didn’t eat, and when we got up this morning we realised that it had been very liberally scattered all over the floor. Roger Poopy picks the dish up between his teeth and then shakes his head excitedly from side to side whilst running up and down the living room. This is not an ace party trick with a bowl full of rice, try it yourself if you don’t believe me.
It is not kind to be grumpy with a poopy who is just enjoying an entertaining rattly noise and a lovely scattering feeling, but I felt it a bit whilst I was sweeping the stickiest bits out of the corners of the carpets.
When Mark came home I told him that I hadn’t got round to doing even half of the things that I should have done, but we went swimming and off to work all the same.
I can carry on with the rest of my responsibilities tomorrow.
