The tiler was supposed to come today to sort out my shower floor. Instead his job ran over and now he may or may not be able to come by the end of next week. Maybe, might be, as Tallulah used to say.
I am resigned. I did not even swear when Jason told me the news. I just waggled my eyebrows about a little bit, and did a small sigh. It is too hot to have a tantrum, unless it’s a real hum dinger where I let it all go and pop a vein in my forehead. Tiling is not worth that.
Instead of making tea for the tiler, Tilly and I did a major house clean while Tallulah and Granny went on Tallulah’s belated birthday trip out. Oscar wafted about with duster in hand and did a good job of running very specific, time limited errands, and sloped off to play Pokemon while he thought we weren’t looking.
There is a certain satisfaction that comes with having a clean house. I now have it, but as Tilly is baking it is only going to last for about another twenty minutes until she flicks cake mix up the newly scrubbed kitchen tiles, so I am making the most of it.
As well as cleaning we have also been out in the garden sweeping the decking. The mess that was made when the trees next door came down was fairly immense, and the whole deck was littered with leaves, twigs and a few layers of industrial grade sawdust. On top of that, the squirrels have been decimating the cobb nuts, so there are hundreds of shell remnants rendered razor sharp by squirrel tooth and claw. We have taken our lives in our hands. Never has sweeping been so dangerous. I felt like Ray Mears.
In other domestic news, my friend Saj came round for a cup of tea yesterday afternoon. She is joining the WI. I am so impressed with her. She went to her first meeting last night and loved it. She is going to come and have tea again and tell me all the news. I want the skinny. If she makes it sound suitably thrilling I may go the whole, middle aged hog and join one near here, if anyone will have me.
I have decided that being young is for young people. You have to have stamina and commitment to be a youth. You have to want to go out all night drinking fancy cider and dancing on table tops and not caring if you’ve got a clean vest on. Sometimes a clean vest will be all you have on. To a young person, the WI is something you play pretend tennis on.
You have to want to spend an hour getting ready to go out. You have to want to sit in small, sweaty bunkers listening to music so loud it makes your ears bleed not knowing if someone is chatting you up or just shouting at you until they either stick their tongue down your throat or attempt to punch you on the nose.
I used to think I would never tire of that sort of thing. I liked to think I would grow old in a revolutionary, cool, sort of way.
Now I shudder at the mere thought of being cool. It is such hard work, and I was never really any good at it the first time around. I am embracing middle age. I am enjoying it. I like gardening, even though I am rubbish at it. I like pottery, and Radio Four, and baking, and looking at cookery books, and drinking wine that costs more than a fiver a bottle. I like wearing comfortable clothes and only taking five minutes to get ready to go out. I embrace handicrafts. I have a bag for knitting wool. I dream of joining the WI.
I have a steam mop for God’s sake.