Sometimes the only thing to do is go with it.
So I filled a bucket with hot water and floor cleaner and scrubbed the kitchen floor.
Why I felt like ironing is beyond me, but I did.
I then gathered up all the stray bits of washing.
The house is now grime free.
I then found myself vacuuming, in the buff, well the demons had got me. I was too hot to wear anything, and no I don’t look anything like Ms. Griffiths in ‘Working Woman’.
Dom, was raking leaves and snipping hydrangeas. I feared he may walk past the kitchen window with his wheelbarrow so every time I went down stairs I draped myself in a quilt that was made for BB when she was born.
The thing is ripped and all the stuffing is coming out of it, I can’t get rid of it, throwing away twenty years of memories.
But it’s just the right size to do one turn round my body and it stays up for about 20 paces.
I did our bedroom, smiling as I went back and forth with the Dyson. Then one unwealdy move and I’d sucked up the belt from Jim’s blue-polkadot-silk, dressing gown. I must remember to tell him.
miles maketh a matyr
77 miles to Hertfordshire. + 77 miles back to Sussex. + 38 miles to Brighton. + 38 miles back to the cottage. + one whole bag of fresh pasta. + one whole head of garlic. + half a tub of butter. + crap television. = heartburn and burnout. goodnight. cul8tr.