The problem with being poorly, and therefore out of action for a day, is that all the things you had to do that day don’t magically bugger off and leave you in peace.
No. They crowd around you, usually at about three in the morning, whispering about how you promised them you really would do that, and how if you leave them out it won’t be fair, etc, etc.
Which is how come there is still a blogging lag, as I struggled through yesterday feeling hung over and running twice as hard as usual.
Then there’s today.
I was looking forward to today because I could turn the alarm clock off, which I duly did, and which allowed me a lie in, which I greatly enjoyed, albeit in a totally unconscious way.
So that was good, but the problem with Saturdays at home is that they’re not really days off, are they?
The girls are away in London with their dad this weekend which, in theory makes life easier. But I’m in charge of the tortoise, which is a great worry to me. She seems fairly equable, but because, unlike Derek, she does not wind around my legs shouting blue murder if things are not entirely to her liking, I have the tendency to forget her.
We are not hibernating her this year. We took advice from the vet who declared her too small. Just in case you were wondering why she is still roaming the highways and byways of Chez Boo.
I spend a lot of time the girls are absent with the word TORTOISE written all over my hand in biro. I feel like that chap in that film, who has to keep writing on himself because he can’t remember anything. Except that I can’t even remember the chap, or the film either.
*Makes mental note to buy more biros.*
Philippe the sour dough starter has gone to sour dough heaven. Not because of me, I might add. But because Tilly made a disastrous sour dough loaf, then lost the will and Philippe withered on the vine, or in the jar, or wherever sour dough starters wither.
Clear skies, Philippe.
I am a bit sad because I really like sour dough bread and I was hoping for a never ending river of delicious loaves.
On the other hand I am utterly delighted that I have one less thing to worry about killing thanks to my tender care.
Household stuff doesn’t stop on Saturdays, nor does homework, the need for hair cuts, the fact that we have run out of milk, and cucumber and are down to the last three squirts of toothpaste.
People do not stop wearing clothes on Saturdays (although I confess to being still in my pyjamas, and utterly unrepentant about it).
The only way to really skive off properly is to leave your house altogether.
The urge to check into a hotel, where I can leave dirty coffee cups all over the room, throw puddles of laundry on the floor with the same gay abandon as the rest of the family, and spend three hours lolling around reading the newspapers because nobody is going to ask me to make them a sandwich, or what the French for ‘my baguette is sleeping’ is, is immense some days.