Day three of a migraine that has morphed into one of those pounding, pressure filled headaches – ooh, it fills my Victorian consumptive’s heart with joy. It’s being so cheerful ‘as keeps me going.
In other, less tedious news:
I have done a significant chunk of my ‘C’ word shopping this week. My anxiety levels about the festive season have now dropped to ‘simmering below meltdown’ instead of ‘twitchy eye erhmagod’.
I have been to my friend Luisa, for a vigorous massage to try and iron out all the kinks in my rock solid neck and shoulders and my dodgy, pensioner’s hip. It was not too agonising, but you could tell she meant it. My body is in shock.
The gardeners are still at the ‘has the earth moved for you?’ stage of proceedings. Apparently they had underestimated quite how many tons of muck were in our garden and we will need the digger for another day. I would show you a picture, but I got home too late to take one properly yesterday. Just imagine weltering, sucking, muddy bog with a fringe of trees and a lot of wheelbarrows and you’ll be there.
The school Christmas Fair rumbles on like a persistent UTI, and only slightly less irritating. We get one thing sorted and another thing explodes off the end. It is not endearing me to the feast of Our Lord’s birth any. My only consolation, at this stage of the proceedings is that there is just over a week to go, and a bit like having a baby, once you start, you really have no choice but to go through with it, no matter how painful.
To add to my joy, it is the town’s Christmas lights switch on tonight and Tallulah is carolling in the school choir, and we are selling raffle tickets, so we must all hare about like loons after school in order to make these things happen and smile and smile and still be a villain and all that.
Derek is still A for anxious about the garden. She has now taken to mostly ignoring the men, except when there is particularly loud rumbling from machines when she bushes up like a giant bottle brush. The rest of the time she runs around the house dementedly howling and trying to bite people. It appears it is all our fault. Nothing new there then.
The children hate each other and have taken to persistent but low level bickering first thing in the mornings, which is conducted over the breakfast table in sibilant, resentful hissing and which moves me to violence.
The gardeners do not use our toilet. Nor do they have more than one cup of tea a day. This both troubles and impresses me in equal measure. I wonder if they are alien gardeners. I have never yet met a single workman of any profession who was not fuelled by gallons of industrial strength tea, and the commensurate desire to piddle it all out again. I wonder if they are drinking bottles of vodka they tuck into the hot tub and peeing over the hedge into next door’s garden? Only time will tell. In the meantime, they have not crashed the digger, so I am in no position to enquire as to their habits.
There is more, but time is getting on and I must attend to the tedious minutiae of life in a house with three feckless children and an indignant cat.