It is the first day of the holidays, AND a bank holiday weekend. In the time honoured tradition therefore, it has rained and rained and rained like blue blazes all day long. I woke to rain, I will go to sleep to rain. At one point we had waves of rain coming in over the garden fence, mingled with lumps of sleet which were impressively large and bounced off the decking.
In the one, dry bit (about twenty minutes) the cat charged out into the garden, plucked a blue tit from on the wing and then dismembered it in various rooms of the house. I still have not found the head. The cat is giving nothing away. NOTHING.
I was not thrilled.
In other news:
The crack in my windscreen was fixed by an absolutely gorgeous looking lady this morning at 8.15. It took fifteen minutes and she was charm personified as well as being efficient, polite and beautiful. I was most pleased.
I managed to cook an entire meal with many food groups, at what is considered by most people to be a regular meal time. Meals have been somewhat bohemian for several weeks. I am patting myself on the back here, although gently, as I had two huge helpings and am now feel rather over served.
I got a rejection letter regarding Oscar’s place at a local infant school. I have called them and informed them I wish to appeal. I do not actually wish to appeal. What I actually wish is that they would just relent and admit their enormous cocknobbage and give me the place I want in the school I want. Failing this, which will only happen when the second coming is officially announced in the Daily Mail, I will go to appeal. I have that to look forward to in the coming months.
I have not managed to get dressed yet today. I consider this to be a triumphant achievement. Shiny gold star and smily face for me.
My husband is prancing about in the wilds of Derbyshire being an orc. I am wildly unimpressed by this for many reasons, not least of which is that I cannot start watching Luther season two until he comes home. I am currently obsessed by Luther. We watched all of season one last weekend. I LOVE Idris Elba to distraction, and I’m quite keen on Ruth Wilson who plays Alice as well. I hear the series get better as they go on, and as I devoured every detail of season one I am salivating to watch season two and can’t until orc weekend is over. BOO.
Oscar continues poorly. He was due to go on his first ever sleepover yesterday with his very best friend in all the world. Instead he has coughed and hacked his way through the last few days while his temperature yo yo’s up and down. I thought he might be better this morning, but he has deteriorated steadily all afternoon and I have just had to administer another dose of Calpol. Oh the stickiness.
I have finished reading the letters of Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford. I loved them. It has taken me weeks, because I have been browsing my way through them, enjoying each nasty, gossipy exchange with the greatest of glee. If you love anything Mitford related, the book is excellent and has been masterfully edited by Charlotte Mosley, who also edited the enormous volume of the sisters letters to each other.
I have just started reading The Da Vinci Code. I know I am about ten years late to this particular party, but I hate to bow to peer pressure when it comes to the book of the moment, and I suspected I would not like it. I suspected this further after having been coerced at some point into watching the parlous film version. It is however, a book on the BBC’s Big Read top 100 books, and I have, over the years, read nearly all of them. I am determined to finish at least one ‘top reads’ list, and as such, it must be read. I’ve managed eighty pages so far, with a great deal of snorting, teeth sucking and general petulance on my part.
It is fair to say that I am not a book snob. I love a good airport novel as much as the next man, but this book is committing many cardinal sins for which I cannot forgive it, and I am less than a quarter of the way in. Firstly, the dialogue is shockingly bad and I find myself reading it in the manner of Miss Babs from Acorn Antiques, which is not good. Secondly, the plot already has so many holes in you could make a string vest out of it. This has caused much sputtering and finger wagging. Thirdly, he falls into the trap of many authors who have clearly had to research their subject like buggery and are loathe to throw away any information they have worked so hard to amass. He keeps adding extraneous detail everywhere like some kind of omnipotent narrator tour guide. Instead of concentrating on say, the hideously mutilated dead body, the narrator keeps waving his umbrella in the air and saying: ‘If you just look to your left you will see a marvellous Titian circa etc etc’. I shout: ‘FOCUS, MAN! FOCUS!’
I struggle on. It will be good training for when I eventually steel myself for the next volume of Proust.
I have been given a makeover by Tallulah. It basically involved her colouring in my face with red lipstick, rather like a plastic surgeon indicating all the areas where I could do with a little work (i.e. everywhere). It took half an hour to wash off and I now have a lipstick overdose induced headache.
She told me it was because she was worried that she might lose me, and it was her way of making me easier to spot in the crowd. I might suggest it to Dan Brown for his next novel.