Thank heavens for it.
But, I have so much to do! Today I really need to tackle some rather rudimentary Spring cleaning. My standards are not as high as Madam Noir - when visiting Chez Noir you are required to walk through bowls of sheep dip by the door and you are regularly sprayed with Dettol throughout your stay. If you have a cold, and reach out for the nearest box of tissues - BEWARE - they are actually industrial strength Flash Wipes. I think Madam Noir is sponsored by Mr Muscle, or his lezza equivalent Ms Muscle.
No. I just want to house relatively tidy for the hols. A challenging task with 2 crazy lurchers. Yesterday they scavenged a whole bag of basmati rice from the kitchen work surface. Every inch of floor is covered in grains of rice, everywhere is crunchy. My sitting room rug looks like it is infested with maggots.
The state of the house and garden are depressing to me. I have many critical repairs to attend to, but no money to do them. Carpet needs replacing, bay windows and roof tiles leak, bedroom windows are so rotten I fear they may fall out, the whole hall and staircase are in need of a trowel of polyfiller and a lick of paint, I still haven't got a shower put in, the driveway gate has fallen off, as has the door to the dishwasher. Oh, and my privet is now so huge and out of control it is, along with the Great Wall of China, visible from space.
Is it any wonder that my dream last night was that I lived in a sweet, wisteria covered cottage by the sea in Cornwall - and that when I came back home one day I discovered the whole place had crumbled into the ocean. Appropriately, for a dream of heartache and devastation, Rochester was there too. In my dream he, and the rest of the brothers grim, were coming into a large inheritance, which seems most unlikely. Oddly, Senor Boldon, was planning on opening a restaurant with his share. Even more unlikely, as Senor Boldon seemed completely immune to the sensual pleasure of food, and existed solely on stir-fry.
Anyway. My plans for the rest of the week:
- planting my veggie seeds in windowsill propagators: leeks, purple sprouting broccoli, butternut squash, carrots and courgettes.
- Preparing the garden for Spring. That will be a day's work - it has lain untouched for 6 months.
- Learning how to sew. I shrunk many lovely Laura Ashley cushion covers (£30 each). I bought some very pretty 50s-esque cotton print in John Lewis last week, with velvet and gingham ribbon for trims. I am hoping to rustle up 5 cushions for £45.
- Lots of trips to the pictures, maybe the Laing gallery too.
- Bake some cakes and scones and have afternoon tea with Aunty Margaret
- Beach walks with Hetty and Cyril.
Now, on to McF, or the Godless, Glaswegian Giovanni. Last week he was trying to educate me about telomeres. I thought he was referring to some kind of Mexican food, and asked if they would be served with tortilla chips and guacamole. Apparently though, they are some kind of chromosomes or DNA. I hope I didn't look too silly. Yesterday he quoted Milton in an email. I respectfully pointed out that he was trying too hard, that I was a simple girl and to impress me all he needed to do was demostrate the correct use of 'you're' and 'your'. A feat impossible for most of the illiterate denizens of interweb dating. Also, if he really wanted to recite poetry then Pam Ayres, Nick Cave or Dorothy Parker would be more my cup of tea.
McF asked me if I did any writing. He was impressed at the vast quantities of inane anecdotes I have at my OPI painted finger-tips. I told him about my blog, and have since been under intense pressure to give him the address so he can subscribe. I have refused. I need to be free to express myself without worrying about hurt feelings. Although, I may have done that already. Last night I was in bed with Mad Men, freshly laundered sheets and Aldi Macadamia Nut Brittle ice cream (yes, you read that correctly, Aldi - DAMN YOU CREDIT CRUNCH). Whilst I was lounging like an octogenarian, McF was hitting the big city for sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.
'Although not necessarily in that order.' he added.
'I should think not in that order!' I replied. 'A man of your age would surely require the drugs before the sex.' I quipped.
He hasn't replied to that one yet. Oh dear. Maybe I need to reevaluate my planned flirting with McF. I can't flirt. I insult and I tease. Is there any wonder that Rochester's only tender, sweet-nothing to me was
'you're a cunt Elizabeth.'
I think my girlish delight at the correct spelling of 'you're' blinded me to the venomous insult.
Jonathan Ross has started on Radio 2. Time for me to start cleaning.