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.
I dusted the piano, telling myself, as I do every time, to get rid of all the tut that’s underneath it, behind it and on top of it. I never do.
I fancy I look like a genteel piano teacher with all the photographs that are perched on top.
(The way the industry is going that’s what I’ll probably end up doing!)
I have photographs of my father, his parents, my parents, Jim’s parents. There is a picture of Jim and me holding BB at our wedding.
In the right light, with the wind behind you, you could swear it was my mother holding me.
After a long time in the shower, I mean long enough to wash away the regrets and recriminations, I took Jackson down the road to buy a paper or three.
Then we went to the pub.
I bought Jackson a bag of beef jerky for his lunch.
I had tuna salad, which was crisp and incredibly uninteresting.
The landlord was there, and two old men talking about SAD.
Seasonal Affective Doodah.
The pub was very quiet, empty and nearly depressing, even though there was a log fire crackling in the massive grate.
I could say it was a picture of bucolic bon-homie but I would be lying.
I read one paper, cleared the last of the tuna then Jackson and I headed home.
The cottage is very clean, very quiet and very still.
The evening is very dark, very quite and very still.
I am unashamedly lounging in my pj’s and a big cardigan, preparing for the return of the hunter gatherer, who I think is home late, They open next week.
I am in the throws of giving up the flat in London.
How will I survive without my river, the buzz, and the number 19?
Plus ca change. C’est la vie, est le plume de ma taunt!