And, mostly, learned that being in charge is really, really hard. Because people don’t listen and they tend to do exactly the opposite of what you expected and it’s maddening. We have a lovely picture of B, hands to face, possibly aghast as the complicated treasure hunt turned into a bit of a free for all. Next week we’ll have a bijou post mortem. Then we’ll try again next term. The whole thing was unutterabley stressful and brilliant. It took me hours to calm down and I failed to go for a run this morning. More time in bed was required. So I stayed there. I am now heading to Southampton to see N’s dad, via the bank and Paperchase. I am restraining myself from killing the guy who is chewing gum extremely noisily behind me. My death glare is not up to the job. The tinny panga pang from the overamped ipod opposite is less annoying than the sound of sporadic sloppy mastication in my right ear. I swear he’s doing it on purpose.
Why do people do this? What has happened to society that we are incapable of chewing with our mouths shut?
Anyhow. The Christmas cards are mostly posted (just people I’m hoping to see, or who need a present wrapped to go) so I don’t need to remember them. I have paper for presents. I have card to make gift tags for the Christmas fair where the Brownies and Guides have a stall. I have card for 73 place settings for the wedding, and I’m sure I can get another batch. It really doesn’t matter if they don’t match perfectly. However, 10 cards for 50p was far too cheap to pass up. I have a cuddly dalek called Colin for N’s dad and a knitted blanket and a photo of us to help make his room at the hospice homely. Must get reprint of photo. It’s the first one of us together. Naw.
Does help if the writing icing isn’t 3 years out of date. That stuff solidifies something horrid. Only the black was usable. The green had gone very weird…
Wasn’t quite the finest wine known to humanity. But it was available there and then (as opposed to here, and now). And it helped.
I have ever-so-slight a headache now…and I’ve not got an awful lot of cope left to deal with Guide issues (which seem to be rearing massively today). In fact, listening to the end of the Camomile Lawn on the radio, and discovering that it was adapted for radio by our lovely neighbour in our sequestered (her husband’s description) cul-de-sac in Norwich, the lovely lady who ended up with dementia.
Doubtless, I will pull myself together. But right now, I’m not in the mood.
And set out a big mat, because it’s inevitable that balls are going to be dropped in the next quarter.
N’s Dad’s heading into a hospice. If he rallies, 3-4 months. If he doesn’t: well, Christmas is going to be sombre. He didn’t respond very well to the treatment, and the tumour’s affecting his mobility, and their home just isn’t set up for being that ill at home.
No, I don’t want to talk about it right now thank you. I might, and I will when I do.
Just as we headed out on a joint expedition to the Guide Shop (for an unreasonably unseasonal Brownies Baseball cap) and Tesco (last ditch attempt to buy plain gingerbread men for Brownies to decorate into reindeer on Friday) it began to hail. Horizontally.
This was mitigated by my meeting the most gorgeous black Labrador at CHQ. Whom promptly patted and had an allergic reaction to. Had to use their sink (which I’m not supposed to do, apparently).
I’m really getting into using my season ticket, bought because the last two cyclist accidents wigged me out as much as they did Mum. For peace of mind all round I caved. Being on the tube hasn’t stopped me stepping in puddles. Am still soaked.
It resonates rather better now. Plus I’ve identified at least two Daniel Cleavers in my chequered past. You may, if you wish, try to guess who they were. DRAMA!!! is not one of them. Well, he was still a bit of an emotional fuckwit (isn’t that just the most wonderful phrase?) but it was easy enough to twig that, and thus disentangle before anything complicated occurred. Helped that he informed me that he didn’t want to go out with me because he’d probably be unfaithful to me (I high tailed it out of there, taking a lasting appreciation of Wes Anderson films with me). As far as I know he’s still married to the delightful Blue. Ah yes, she who when she encountered me was a perfect bitch, despite the fact that I was about as unthreatening as I could be, being post-pack-holiday exhausted, and sweaty from softball: and she was glossy, groomed and with an ENORMOUS diamond on her finger. Or, perhaps, I was a threat, in that she knew that DRAMA!!! had been attracted to me, and that this stemmed from, yup, meeting after softball when I wasn’t actually at my best….. Every once in a while, LinkedIn suggests that I might like to connect to them. Every once in a while, I inform LinkedIn that it might like to go stuff itself.
Anyhow. What seemed the stuff of fantasy is, now, horrifyingly, terrifyingly accurate. Instant messaging in the office. The defoliation campaign involved in getting my legs ready for public consumption. Slightly less with the anti-men-ranting, as we’ve not had too many of them recently (but we do have them). As I head into the territory of smug married, please, dear friends, don’t let me lose my identity. Don’t let me become a housing or baby bore. I’m quite boring enough about Brownies and weddings, after all. And that’s before we get onto the knitting (glad tidings: N’s engagement sweater will probably have enough yarn leftover for me to have a sweater too! I think I might do a second Argyle. I still have the pattern, and it doesn’t take much yarn, and I love my red version).
The plumber is supposed to be fitting a new cistern. So far, because the stop cocks are all jammed, and the intake valve on the side of the cistern doesn’t actually work, he’s not really achieved anything other than going shopping for a new intake valve. We’ve had to turn off the water for the whole block, and the system is now draining. No. It’s just finished draining. Hallelujah!
This rigmarole has taken two hours. He is yet to even attempt to detach the ancient painted-over pipework. And there I was, fondly imagining that I could head into the office later today. Instead, I’ve run up and down the stairs about six times, fixed things remotely, had a debate with my minion, soothed the BI guy, had the laptop run out of battery and eaten cake for breakfast at 10am.
Well. The banana bread needed eating before it went ming. So I obliged. One has to tidy these things up occasionally.
I’ve started reading Bridget Jones again. I’d forgotten how brilliant the first book is. So very, very clever. The film version really didn’t do the character any favours – it made her stupid. Bridget isn’t stupid. Hopelessly romantic, conflicted by feminism, unfortunately dependent on a man for her self worth, but she’s not stupid. And then, it didn’t really matter how, or what, Helen Fielding wrote: that first excellent book meant that anything with Bridget would be a success. I think this is why I disliked the second book. It descended into self-parody and ridiculous situations….I’m conflicted about the third. I’ll probably succumb if it shows up at the BookPeople one lunchtime. In the meantime, I’ll continue to enjoy Radio 4 Extra’s excellent adaptation of “In Search of Lost Time”. The actor playing Marcel is excellent. We are immersed in memory with the help of sound effects: music, church bells, birdsong, gunfire, running water, the sea. Albertine is delightfully selfish and spoiled and sinned against as well as sinner. Francoise so down to earth. Madame Swann just blooming and gorgeous and scintillating.
I can hear all sorts of crashes and bangs from the bathroom. I’m assuming that this is a Good Thing. I do hope so.