witterings

I am here.

My cold is progressing nicely. Yesterday it went onto my  chest which means I am rather crackly and brown paper packages wrapped up in stringish. Today I am coughing violently and prone to deafness due to my ears being blocked. Sore throat hanging in there.

I am dosing myself with painkillers and the odd glass of Prosecco to take the edge off.

I am also drinking gallons and gallons of water so that I don’t become a shrivelled husk. The result is that I spend half the night coughing, and the rest of the time going for a pee.

Happy days.

I have yet to take to my bed. There is too much to do.

I have achieved things:

With Tilly’s help the bathrooms are now clean. The floors are less crunchy and the kitchen cupboards do not stick to your hands when you open them.

I made a cake. I took it to a party. Many children descended on it like a horde of locusts. It was well received.

I have taken number one son to a swimming party. He was very nervous about going, even though he loves his friend dearly. I volunteered to go and be a helper. It was actually rather lovely. Apart from standing up to my chest in tepid water for an hour. Which I don’t think has done my cold much good.

On the other hand I WILL go to heaven. Oscar had an absolutely lovely, lovely time, and has made some new friends, as well as cementing his friendship with the frankly adorable birthday boy.

I have not been fired from my new job yet. This is good. I haven’t done anything to be fired for I hasten to add. I am just notorious for being a woman who doesn’t work and the whole working for a living thing has yet to sink in. I keep expecting to be hauled before the beak.

It may yet happen. I am on trial until Christmas. I cannot say that I will be sad if I do get the order of the boot. After all, I have been delightfully and happily unemployed for eight years now to no ill effect, and I never feel guilty about it, nor do I wonder what to do with my time. On the other hand I am enjoying my work so far and am also enjoying the promise of payment to come, so we will see.

I did my Christmas shopping. I had a stern talking to myself in the week. I explained to myself that the new job etc, etc did not leave me the leisure to scream about like a present buying banshee in the dying embers of December and it was about time I pulled my finger out and did the needful.

As a result I spent yesterday huddled up in my pyjamas, sitting in front of the computer, buying everything on the internet. I did not take advantage of any Black Friday deals. This is partly because I found the whole thing rather unnerving, and largely because all the things my family wants are so strange they will never be discounted in any colour of Friday. I have purchased a badge which says ‘The Truth is a Lemon Meringue Pie’, ‘a triple layered tutu which does not light up, which was what was requested, but is an acceptable substitute, and a pair of dungarees with elephants on them to name but a few.

I will undoubtedly do more desultory purchasing in the next few weeks, but everyone who should have a present has one. I am victorious. Victorious but broke and broken. It was a soul destroying experience.

On the other hand I did not have to queue in Argos car park for four hours to smack someone over the head with a cut price frying pan I didn’t want, to buy a telly I neither needed nor wanted. So hoorah.

The boy’s homework has been done. We have discussed his trip to London and what sort of clothes he saw at the Fashion and Textile museum. We have drawn a mini dress. We have thought about eating spider cake. We have wrestled with fronted adverbials. It’s all good.

Everyone has been fed, hot food, every day. A different thing every day too, I might add. Due to cake baking and swimming party stuff and things we fell back on sausage and mash with onion gravy tonight. I treated the mash as medicinal. It’s good for what ails you.

I am reading Caitlin Moran’s, How To Build a Woman. It is making me laugh. I am delighted not to be reading The End of Mr. Y anymore. Not my thing at all. Too much anal sex in Little Chef toilet blocks, which coupled with quantum physics and religious parables, did not please me greatly. If you liked Ulysses by James Joyce it might be just up your street.

I didn’t.

I like a different street.

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