Yesterday we spent a lot of time exploring the stream that runs by the end of our road. We spent ages plodging about with our wellies slowly filling with pond weed, looking for water voles. It does not surprise me at all that we did not find any, given that any water vole worth its salt would have thought the end of the world was nigh and buggered off as soon as it heard the crashing of our humongous feet.
We did find some interesting holes that look like they may have just been vacated by terrified water voles though, so go us, and our Chris Packham ways. We also found a slightly stunned frog and an over turned shopping trolley. Tallulah managed to trip over some weed, filled her boots with water and insisted during the ensuing hysterics (hers of terror, mine of laughter), that she had been ‘bitten’ by something that was still in her boot.
When we could get her to sit still long enough to wrestle her water logged boot off her, we found no evidence of either a bite or a thing. She insisted that it had happened. When questioned further as to what she thought it might be, she said: ‘A tiny man.’
So there you have it. Evidence that come the zombie apocalypse, our family is doomed. Nature, green in tooth and claw defeated us, and all we have to show for it is the possible first sighting of a mutant, tiny man whose sole aim in life is to hop down your wellingtons and eat your leg.
As always, I like to blame the Conservatives. Although to be fair, it could have been Nigel Farage.
Today I have spent the day attempting, and failing to defrost the fridge, which leaked so heavily yesterday that it shorted out the mains on at least three occasions, which means I can no longer stick a tea towel under the workings and ignore it. This is my best plan. My second best plan for occasions such as these is to ‘hit it wiv’ an ‘ammer.’ Sadly, Jason said I could not hit the fridge with a hammer, so I was reduced to trying to do something practical.
And we all know how well I fare at that.
My kitchen table is full of wilting greenery. There is a cool box in the utility room where I have attempted to salvage the most perishable things, and the fridge is sitting mutely and hatefully in the corner of the room doing three quarters of fuck all, while I swear at it and throw the odd kettleful of boiling water its way.
Yes. I have disconnected the power supply.
No, my hair is not curly. Nor do I look like charred Struwelpeter. As yesterday, so today. I am mostly damp.
I have scrubbed fourteen types of pond weed from the bathrooms, lost my shit with Oscar, whose room looked, even by my slack standards, like someone had burgled it, and hoovered a great deal of bark from the stairs. I am filthy, stinky, sore of head, sore of sinus, and due to go out in less than an hour. I need a miracle. I’d take one for my appearance, but I think that’s more of an ask. I’d happily settle for a functioning fridge.
P.S. This post was supposed to be about my utter perplexity/horror/depression about this article, which states that should all go to plan, and I very much hope it does not, we can expect to have the world’s second ‘blow job’ cafe in London by Christmas. Except I realised that as yet, there are no words…