Nearly organised

But, isn’t that always the case? Nearly organised? Not quite, but nearly. The laundry is under control. The sitting room bears a semblance of tidiness. I’ve been to Parkrun for the first time in weeks and just poddled round. My trail shoes are falling to pieces despite only being 225 miles old (my street trainers, by comparison, are 300 miles old and still look pretty spiffy. They’ll need replacing in a couple of months, though).

Yesterday, Mum and I failed to buy her a Mother of the Bride outfit. Four hours, up Regent’s Street and up Oxford Street, with pauses for food and tea and coffee. It was exhausting. She’d started the day by breaking her handbag. In transferring everything into a new, overstuffed handbag, she set off the panic button on her phone. This caused the phone at my parents’ to ring. It also texted me, and texted Nick. Nick also phoned (I was just coming back from Parkrun, and I don’t take my phone with me to that). So, with multiple phones blaring, it got a bit ridiculous. Naturally, my father was no help at all, and didn’t answer any of the phones. With all that, she missed the tube..but got the next one and was still early to meet me. She greatly approves of Waterstone’s Piccadilly’s coffee shop as a meeting place. So much less frenetic than anywhere else. So much more civilised. And so much more organised than John Lewis (John Lewis really needs one more person serving on each of their counters in the top floor coffee shop. They always seem to be in a state of mild disorganisation and everyone always seems to be learning their role. I suspect that new partners begin there. The result is massive queues and a sense of achievement when one has finally managed to pay and acquire some milk. We sent the tea cups back. They were still tannin stained). Anyhow. We have rejected Hugo Boss, Precis Petite, Minuet, Hobbs (nearly, but not quite) and found a sewing pattern which wasn’t properly in stock. Still to be attempted are Camden Market where there’s a very pretty dress (possibly Vivien of Holloway, but actually not after a brief search. She’s coming again on Friday to peruse the market and take tea). There are very few short sleeved dresses around. Everything is sleeveless. Mum, at 77, no longer wishes to show off her arms at a formal occasion.

Otherwise, things continue much the same. N is painting his bungalow, which makes it a no-go area for me. I keep being at home and lonely, but the plus side is that Things are Getting Done. Knitting, tidiness, Brownie planning and the like.  I have had lovely parcels from overseas (pictures when I’m organised) and have danced out for St George’s Day (ditto).  I found a fabulous letter in the advice pages of Bust magazine, which I will reproduce here, but N’s using the iPhone charger, and I’ve got the magazine on my iPad, and my iPad has No Battery At All, so I can’t get at it right now. Suffice to say I wish I’d had it in January. It would have been kinder, even if the practical upshot had ended up much the same.  It is a lot easier not having such a dramatic drain on my emotional resources. I like the new normal.

I think I’m the only person in the world who feels sorry for Tom Archer ( I know he’s behaved dreadfully to poor Kirsty. But I’m also one of the few people who knows how hard it is to break off an engagement, knowing that you don’t really love the person that you’re marrying, and knowing that it’s going to break their heart. The moment B asked me to marry him, 14 years ago, I knew the answer ought to be “no”. I didn’t have the courage to say that at the crucial moment. It took me eight months to pluck up the courage to say “actually, we shouldn’t be doing this” and I did it by phone, which was rather mean – but if I hadn’t have said it then, I’d have spent many more months feeling anxious and sick about it all, and we’d be divorced by now.  I’m getting far too sucked into the drama of the whole situation on the radio – I have to remember these are characters and not real people. However, I feel that he has done the right thing. Just in the worst possible way. He feels dreadful…and everyone in the soap is piling blame upon him.

It is time to go to a birthday party. There may be photos. There needs to be some makeup…