The weather is still foul.
I have had a sore shoulder/neck since last week. I blame holiday beds. It seemed to get better when I got home and slept in my own bed.
Until today, when I have woken up with the return of the shoulder pain, plus a cracking headache. And I cannot blame holiday beds. Only impending old age.
To add insult to injury, one of the Velux windows in the kitchen extension seems to have sprung a leak. It was dripping neatly onto the Chaise Longue of Death (TM), like the tears of a lachrymose Victorian consumptive. I have moved the CLD (TM) and substituted Wilkinson’s finest plastic mixing bowls.
The washing machine appears to have also sprung another leak. In the same place we had the last leak which we thought Jason had fixed once and for all. I have murderous thoughts about that washing machine on an almost daily basis. Considering it is the most expensive washing machine we have ever had, it is also the crappest washing machine we have ever had. Beating the clothes on a rock at the bottom of the garden would probably do as much good. Certainly in this rain.
After six weeks of repeatedly fixing the washing machine, sorting out the leaking shower, and getting the front door painted I had allowed myself to feel foolishly relaxed about the house, and had imagined we could move on to doing some more of the decorative areas, like replacing the nasty bedroom doors. But no. It seems we are back to wading around in wellington boots and plastic rain hoods, thinking about the exorbitant costs of possibly having to replace windows and worrying about the flat roof in the torrential rain.
Bollocks to it.
As you can see, I am grumpy. Grumpy, weary and disconsolate.
The holidays are well and truly ended. The children go back on Thursday, but mostly what remains of the week is being swallowed up in errands and preparation for the big day. In the olden days I would have rejoiced, as the six weeks holiday was an almighty slog with small children. Not now. I love being around my children and I will miss them, and the easiness of life without the constant pressures of homework, after school clubs, nits and alarm clocks to marshall us.
They are having a last hurrah tomorrow, at the maize maze with their cousins. It is something they do every year and always look forward to. I’m not sure we’ve ever left it so late though. Pray God it is not struck by lightning, or more likely, drowned under Biblical floods.
Mainly I miss my husband.
He left us in London last Monday night, and had already gone off on his last weekend of the year scamping with his Orc mates when we returned. He got back late yesterday afternoon, whereupon he unpacked, got clean, ate tea, watched Dr. Who with us, and then went to bed at 8.00 p.m. He flew out at 3.00 a.m.
He is home on Thursday night, but I am out. I will see him on Friday, but I am also out on Saturday for the day and won’t be home until late, which means we get Sunday together, and then he flies out again at stupid o’clock on Monday morning.
I am feeling pissed off about it. I feel that I shouldn’t be pissed off about it, which makes me more pissed off about it.
I feel that I can’t really say how fed up I am, because I am well aware that a) he is not going to Germany for shits and giggles. He mostly hates it there, b) it’s how he earns the money that allows me to have such an, in the main, delightful life where the largest things I have to worry about are leaky Velux windows and if my Ocado man is running late, c) I get to go out myself and he babysits uncomplainingly when I want time away, d) he doesn’t get any proper time off as a rule and scamping is his only vice. I don’t have to call him home from the pub every weekend, or the football or from fly fishing. He works bloody hard, doing something he doesn’t really enjoy and he does need a break from it. I get that. And I realise I am very lucky.
Sometimes though, it is hard, when I don’t see him for days and days, and when I do see him we are both tired and busy and distracted. I tried to mention it at the weekend, and then he teased me about the fact that I am out when he gets back and away on Saturday, and that made me feel really angry, and then I didn’t feel like I could express it because he has a point, so I didn’t, and now here we are.
He also said: ‘What can I do about it?’ which is pretty unanswerable really. He can’t do anything. It would be appallingly behaved of me to have demanded he cut short his weekend away unless there were a dire emergency and it weren’t just me feeling displaced and slightly needy. I don’t want to cancel the things I have booked for next week, and that’s my problem. Basically I want to have my cake and eat it.
I’m not sure who I’m most angry with, myself, him, or the situation we find ourselves in. I am angry with myself for feeling lonely without him. I feel I should be able to manage. I have managed this far. I actually can manage. It’s just that this week, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I don’t want to. Not on my own. Not again. I suspect it is a combination of the onset of the dank weather which is very lowering to ones spirits, as all readers of the Victorian triple decker novel will know, the come down from our amazing week in London, the beginning of incessant chores again, and the beginning of another school year where both I and the children will find ourselves captive to a system that we all find fairly repressive one way and another. I also have two children starting brand new schools. One of them is very excited. The other is very not excited. Balancing the yin and yang of this over the next few days will be wearing, as will dealing with the fall out of what the reality of the situation brings for both of them. I feel that Tallulah may be disappointed that what is in her excited imaginings does not live up to expectations and that Oscar will just exist in a permanent state of horror until October half term. I hope I am wrong.
And I was rather disappointed with Dr. Who. I liked the new Dr. but I didn’t think he got shown to his best advantage and I didn’t really understand what the episode was trying to say, and at times I felt like it was trying to say everything, very badly, and close off lots of plot loops, which frankly, nobody really cares about, because when you examine it closely, the plot of Dr. Who as a massive story arc is just like an over sized string vest, more holes than anything else. I felt like giving Stephen Moffat a massive shake and asking him to ‘just get on with it.’ And I waited three days to watch that episode. Three days, and it was all a bit meh.
And I am sad, and tired and feel rather enough is enoughish, even though the good Lord never gives you more than you can bear, and breathe and all that stuff.