It is Wednesday – gawdelpus.
It feels like I should be at least on my second Friday of the week by now.
I am having one of those awful weeks where every day lasts about seventy two hours, and yet, when I wake up I am amazed at how quickly the time is flying by. This simultaneous stretching and eroding of time makes me feel mostly like a very confused wave.
Here are some rambling thoughts I have dredged from the sludgy bottom of my brain.
The gardeners dig on. Soon we will have a giant, muddy crater instead of a garden and be able to invite ambulance crews to come and re-enact bomb damage scenarios and pretend to treat people for severed arms and hearing loss while the cat hares around rim of the hole, shaking her muddy paws and mewling pathetically for the cat equivalent of ‘soooouup’ and a warm blanket.
Tallulah had a spectacular, full on tantrum last night. It was the first one she has indulged in for months and months. When they were a regular feature in our lives we were rather inured to them. Now they creep up on us and take us by surprise and all our hair stands straight up and we are startled and alarmed. The tantrum was, as all tantrums tend to be, about nothing in particular. Probably it was about everything. She has rather a lot on her plate at the moment and I suspect she needed a good vent. It was pretty miserable for all concerned. I hope it’s out of her system now for at least another twelve months.
In good news, I have eaten curry. I have had curry cravings for a while, and driving home on Monday night in the mizzling rain, general air of dank wintriness and all pervading traffic fumes I made an executive decision that a curry was just the thing. Amazingly it totally was. Sometimes you crave these things and build them up in your imagination to such a dizzy height that they can’t but fail to live up to them. Sometimes it’s all just right. This curry was like baby bear’s porridge. Blinkin’ delicious.
I continue to chip away at the mountainous project that is the Christmas Fair. It is sucking the life out of me. I am a mere husk. I am beginning to quake every time someone shows me a raffle ticket. I feel sick when presented with the image of a poinsettia sitting next to a kitten stuffed in a festive brandy glass. Nicki feels the same. We long to be like Raymond Briggs’ Santa and shout ‘bloomin’ ‘eck!’ everyone asks us something fete related.
My Christmas shopping is gradually receding under the relentless onslaught of my attempts to master it and send it to bed with a fierce drubbing. A few stubborn stains remain on the list to plague me, but I shall have them beaten on rocks by the end of the week. We are now at the stage where I am desperately buying random items and shouting; ‘That will do. They will love a rotating spatula with built in ice scraper and a widget that tells you the time in Moscow.’ Then I fall to the floor, weeping and cascading bits of tinsel from every orifice.
I managed to tune into the Archers this week, on my way to Bedworth. Someone has shot someone’s dog! Has the criminal underclass finally infiltrated Ambridge? Dear lord. It is all very perturbing. It was bad enough when Tom/Rob something or other was having that affair with that woman who cried a lot in the playground and took comfort in the eternal knowledge that an Ambridge duck is ALWAYS an Ambridge duck. I would never have succumbed to his advances. His attempts at seduction involved offering her ‘salad’ in a gravelly voice. SALAD? SALAD? Would Casanova have lowered himself to offer a woman salad? I don’t think so. And now we have dead dogs to contend with. Yikes.