Well, it comes to a pretty pass when your husband marks your spelling in front of the Nation. That deffinattelee is not the done thing, Jim!
Dear brighton Beau, forgive my assumptions, and for God’s sake, Crawford, lay off the Valium.
Michael Kelpie, thank you for making me cry. You finally cracked my shell.
It’s interesting that I have been holding myself together, believing that I had dealt with the end of it all, but aint it the way. Somebody says something nice and bang goes your resolve. I blubbed all the way to the bank, literally. I had to pay in Jim’s wages.
If you were concerned about the dustmen, they finally came, but not before they were chased down the road and directed to the cottage.
I leave for San Diego on Thursday, so Hanna, our house-sitter, will have to run after them again to make sure they collect on Friday. It has become quite a sport. Like beating the bounds, it’s beating the bins.
I had a fab meeting with Juliana who is going to edit my scribbles. We sat in the garden, drinking coffee, as the blackbird pulled worms out of the lawn and the sun burnt my shoulders. Ridiculous to get a builders vest mark in April.
But now, at 10.45, I am packed.
Tomorrow I drive up to the flat and have a meeting about a documentary I want to make. Jim has a day off from the Globe, so I imagine we will be able to schedule in a row.
I’ve packed so minimally. The Optimum Health Institute provides the towels, but the the rest of the time they recommend you spend in ‘sweat pants’. That’s them not me, and jacuzzi wear.
I have one wheely suitcase full of books, and a pouch of pens. All different colours.
I will try and blog but I don’t know how the week will pan out. I am not taking my laptop as I’m meant to be resting. If the brochure is anything to go by, I will have to write about it.
But now I am hungry and tired and ready for sleep, so ttfn and cu2morrer.