The attic. Moan. The attic. At Third House. Moooooan. The attic . . . moan. August is almost gone and some time in September I have to bring the frelling backlist home from the last storage unit. All forty-seven gazillion boxes of it. And you can already hardly edge around* all the boxes of files** and of books*** that won’t fit† either downstairs or at the cottage†† Moan.
I NEED DISTRACTION. I KNOW. I’LL RESPOND TO A FEW FORUM COMMENTS.
A few years ago I needed a plumber for my small bathroom. I warned the man at the other end of the phone line, “It’s a very small space.” He answered cheerfully, “I’ll send a very small plumber.” She was. And she fixed it. But she’s the only one I’ve ever seen.
For some reason, probably because I am still suffering post-house-move brain-blastedness†††, the reference to size makes me think of the stalwart young men who moved my piano, only one of the three of whom looked at all as if he might lift heavy things for a living. I was also thinking of Plumbers I Have Known folding themselves up into spaces much too small for them . . . and the tendency among folded-up plumbers to demonstrate builder’s crack to an extreme degree.
All three of my piano movers were wearing the kind of low-slung trouserage prone to builder’s-crackage. And as they all three bent down the first time to examine the basis of the situation I was treated to . . . a vast triple frontage‡ of LURID COLOURED BOXER SHORTS. I was delighted. I also nearly burst out laughing.
These blogs are sooooo making me not want to renovate our house, even though it’s desperately needed…
Oh come on. It’s romantic having to put buckets out for the drips, and to lie snuggled up in bed listening to the mice playing polo in the walls, and to have tadpoles coming in through the kitchen tap (it’s only for a month or two in the spring, after all), and floorboards so aggressively wavy and unpredictable that if you’ve had a beer in the last twenty-four hours you’d better sleep in the barn (under a tarpaulin). Where’s your sense of ADVENTURE?
Diane in MN
. . . As it’s a good and very efficient furnace, replacing it never came up: a good thing, as a new furnace would have been even spendier. I feel your pain.
Yes. One of the—or rather the—clinching argument of Shiny New Plumber about replacing my current boiler is that by the time I bought the parts for the old one I’d be halfway to the new one . . . AND the old one is a piece of crap. Since I only have Shiny New Plumber at all kind of far out on a limb of semi-unknown recommendations—one would rather hire a new plumber because one’s best friend has used him for twenty years and her entire family loves him including the goldfish, whom he replumbed on an emergency basis one Sunday afternoon when the fishtank exploded—I did look up the boiler he’s recommending and it’s number one by about twenty points in the WHICH? rating which is a good sign. An even better sign will be if he knows how to put it in. Mind you according to his web site he’s about third generation in a large family of plumbers . . . although he told me he is failing to interest his thirteen-year-old daughter in carrying on the family tradition.
And, speaking of small, and the state of the cottage‡‡, I hope the extra body he brings to assist him is svelte and bendy. A thirteen-year-old daughter would be perfect.
But I really want my hot water.
Me too, big time, and so I NEVER TALK ABOUT IT because I don’t want to give the hot water heater any ideas, like thinking it’s reached retirement age. And I don’t know where that sentence came from; I never wrote it.
No, no, of course not, if your hot water heater comes round for confirmation I will stoutly deny everything. My current object has only to last two more baths. Please God and St Mermaid-of-the-Flowing-Waters. I’ve had the uneasy sensation that it’s been getting a little whimsical since Shiny New Plumber condemned it.
Hot water is one of the critical components of civilisation, in my opinion.
I ENTIRELY CONCUR.
Oof. At least you got a very nice individual plumber?
Well he’s certainly very jolly‡‡‡. He also underwrites a seven-year guarantee on the new diamond-encrusted family member, which is popular.
Wait, stuck on the lavender comment. Was the lady referring to her houseplant as her pet, is there really a dog breed nicknamed lavender, or was she referring to the unmentionably enthusiastic “L” word dogs?
Not exactly. She was having a little trouble with the English language and maybe Labradors are called lavenders in her mother tongue. I’m not sure if she was doing that thing of using the word that almost sounds right and assuming it would do, or whether her accent was so strong that ‘Labrador’ was coming out ‘lavender’. Whatever.
Speaking of which, I may have been losing respect for them before reading the blog because everyone around here has them (or chihuahuas or pit bulls, or mixes of all three), but your anecdotes certainly haven’t helped their case.
Labradors are slime. Except, occasionally, when they aren’t. There are two entirely different strains of them any more, at least in England: the proper old working dog style, and there’s a young bitch of this variety who lives around the corner who is a complete sweetie and I’m happy to see her coming, and the modern SUV-shaped ugly stupid monster, owned by ugly stupid people who let it wreck your temper as well as your gentle, bewildered hellhounds’, and to crap all over the churchyard and possibly your driveway. I FRELLING WELL HATE LABRADORS. Except, occasionally, when I don’t. As above.
Chihuahuas are not a plague around here. Pit bulls are, but pit bulls, or their ilk, are a plague pretty much everywhere. It’s what gets popular, you know? Popular is the death knell for anything nice.
And on that cheerful note . . .
* * *
* Especially not without hitting your head on one of those where-did-that-come-from interesting ceiling angles.
** Including things like the original manuscript of BEAUTY. Eeeeeep. Which I rediscover every few years. I think it gets more startling every time. Also the original, equally smudgy, cut-and-pasted, liberally white-outed^ SWORD and HERO. As I recall OUTLAWS is the worst in this regard. I still have grisly flashbacks of kneeling on the floor in my little house in Maine, cutting up chapters and paragraphs and trying to tape them together again before I forget what I’m doing, and feverishly scrawling cryptic bridges in the margins, hoping I’ll be able to smooth them out later. Or possibly OUTLAWS was the worst. I used to burn a lot of mss in my early typewriter days. Not so much now: everything becomes second sheets for the printer.^^ Except occasionally when I revert and do my cutting and pasting in hard copy. Occasionally this is therapeutic.
And then I burn them. Sometimes. Sometimes I just scream and tear them up. And stomp on them.
^ Have you seen that there are typewriter aps for your iPad? WHYYYYYYY?
^^ It’s surprisingly confusing having your own words on the back of your freshly printed out draft pages. Even when you know that’s an old story and you’re working on a new story.
*** Books? Books? Never say. I amaze myself.
† My thirty-six million horse books, fiction and nonfiction. My nineteen million nonfiction critters of the world books, excluding horses, including a lot of guidebooks and wild critter rescue and management books, the majority being North American, including dozens of standard Audubon and Peterson field guides and so on, but by no means exclusively these—the NA collection expanded exponentially when I was figuring out DRAGONHAVEN and some of these are very small press/audience and peculiar. The Australian critter books go with the general Australian collection—which considering I’ve only ever spent about five weeks there total is pretty impressive. But Australia is, you know, mad, as well as instantly irresistible. There’s nothing else anything like it.^ Including all that let’s-evolve-in-interesting-off-the-wall-ways on a huge freaky water-bound continent fauna, and flora to go with ’em. WHEEEEEEE. Also the Aboriginal mythology—that is, what the white invaders managed to write down about it—is fascinating. And then there’s my British guidebook collection. Siiiiiigh. I adore guidebooks. I buy them everywhere I go.^^ And I have the impassable attic to prove it. AND PETER’S AND MY BACKLIST STILL HAS TO GO UP THERE.
^ Except maybe New Zealand or Tasmania in a distant-cousin way but I haven’t been to either of these.
^^ Sometimes I buy the same one several times. Mottisfont, for example. I must have three or four. Every time the National Trust trots out a new edition—which is to say there are three more paragraphs of the foreword to the foreword to the foreword about what they’ve been doing since the last edition—I buy it again. Hey, sometimes there are new rose photos.
†† I was hacking through the between-covers verbiage at the cottage today and thinking gloomily of the 1,000,000,000 fresh, new books I have on various wish lists at various on line emporia, and I know I will eventually add far more of these to my shopping basket(s) than I will delete, which does not address the books bought by opening a three-dimensional door, with or without three-dimensional bell, crossing a three-dimensional threshold, and browsing three-dimensional books on 3D shelves and tables, overseen by a very realistic-ly dimensional clerk who may or may not have a clue about books^ but can run a credit card machine.
^ It fascinates me that in the increasingly, or do I mean decreasingly, tiny beleaguered cult world of the high street bookstore, you do get clerks who seem to be there only because the gift shop didn’t have a grunt-level staff opening.
††† Or, even more likely, current attic complete mental breakdown
‡ Or backage, if you prefer
‡‡ You are reading the footnotes in order, aren’t you?
‡‡‡ He also, in the grand British working-man tradition, calls me ‘luv’. I know I’m supposed to object to this, but it always makes me fall down laughing. Increasingly so as they get younger and younger as I get older and older. I know I’m twice his age because he mentioned being thirty-two.^
^ Which means, to have a thirteen-year-old daughter, he started young.
The last three days I’ve said TONIGHT I AM GOING TO BLOG. And then by evening all my atoms have rolled over to the other side of the room again. This house move business is not just a bear, it’s a large herd of hairy mammoths on the rampage. Arrrgh. And then of course, ducking tusks and coughing in the churned up dust and deafened by all the trumpeting, I get distracted by details like I NEED A WASTEBASKET FOR MY UPSTAIRS LOO. Third House is significantly smaller than the mews so even having unloaded an entire lorry convoy of STUFF* we’re still kind of wedged in, and while technically the attic is my domain, in practise it’s full of STUUUUUUUUUFFFF** so I’ve got a little obsessive about . . . my half-loo, that is an entire toilet but nothing else but a sink, which is MINE, since no sane person is going to climb those stairs and risk permanent head injury from all the low ceiling angles*** when there’s a perfectly good whole bath which, furthermore, you can stand up in ALL of, downstairs.
But there is a problem. Long-time blog readers may remember that I had Fun with Tiles when I put in the attic—which involved ripping the doodah out of a lot of the one full bathroom due to structural irregularities, so while I was at it I replaced the bath and put in some fancy tiles. The fancy tiles I chose for the brand-new upstairs loo, while I adore them, happen to be cream, grey, gold and red. The wastebasket from the half loo at the mews is pink. Hot pink. This clearly will not do. At the moment there’s a blue and lavender wastebasket because one MUST have somewhere to throw used tissues and dental floss† but it gives me the fantods every time I go in there. Of such things are obsessions made, at least if you’re at the extreme end of the standard human vision bias with lashings of OCD.
You’d think, in three, even small, houses full of rooms with wastebaskets, there would be one, somewhere, that I could swap out. You’d be wrong.†† They’re all pink (!), rust or green. And one blue and lavender. Arrrgh. You can find anything on line, right? Again wrong. You can’t find a non-boring, preferably floral-ish††† red based wastebasket . . . at least not if you don’t want to pay hundreds of pounds. Did you know you could pay hundreds of pounds on a wastebasket? Are you going to throw used tissues and dental floss‡ in something you paid HUNDREDS OF POUNDS FOR? Not me. But then I’m not going to spend the hundreds of pounds on a functionless wastebasket-shaped objet d’art either. Where was a frelling Redoute-print plastic bin when I wanted one?‡‡
I was in DESPAIR. I was wondering if I was going to be forced to buy one of those little basketry bins, which are fine, I guess, but not if what you want is red and decorative and worthy of those tiles. ‡‡‡
And then as a final throw I googled William Morris. Sigh. I have an awful lot of cheap knock-off William Morris because for those of us florally-fixated that’s often all there frelling is.§ AND LO. One of the chief miscreants . . . I mean purveyors of housewares targeted at the people who want the have-nothing-in-your-house-you-do-not-know-to-be-useful-or-believe-to-be-beautiful§§ look without having to work at it or stray out of their comfort zone . . . have brought out a new line: Morris’ strawberry thief . . . IN RED.§§§ INCLUDING WASTEBASKETS.
It’s on its way. Maybe now I’ll get some sleep.#
* * *
* Including more books than I can bear to estimate. Estate-wagon-full after estate-wagon-full after estate-wagon-full I can tell you because most of them got hauled away during those weeks the ME was stopping me driving, and whose silent uncomplaining removal is yet another star in the heavenly crowns of Nina and Ignatius, who are the ones with the estate wagon.
My poor cottage is nonetheless pretty well impassable with stuff . . . including dangerously towering piles of books.^ Sigh. The kitchen, being the hellpack’s domain, only has books on shelves. It’s the only room in the house that does.^^ One of these days there’s going to be an almighty roar as all the piles on the stairs domino themselves to the foot . . . and/or one morning [sic] I’m not going to be able to get out of bed when all the piles in the bedroom and the upstairs hall—and the bathroom and the ladder-stair to the attic—get caught in a crosswind, which till the weather turns cold and I start closing windows is unpleasantly likely.
^ Despite all the estate-wagon-fulls. Nina did tell me that two of the (I think) four Oxfam book shops they were frequenting began to blanch when they saw them coming.
^^ Yes. Including the bathroom. And they can’t stay for long since between laundry drying on the overhead airer and a HOT bath in which to fall asleep+ every night it’s pretty steamy in there kind of a lot of the time.
+ Which means I’m getting at least a little sleep.
** And some time before the end of September I have to have it forced back into corners, against walls, in the under-eaves crawl spaces, under the gigantic but conveniently long thin table from the old house’s kitchen^ and my old small-double bed from Maine . . .so I can bring the frelling backlist home^^ after which influx I will probably only be able to get to the top of the attic stairs and stop, and the wastebasket in the then-unapproachable loo will become irrelevant.
^ Which is worth about £2.57 in real-world terms BUT I AM NOT GIVING IT UP.+
+ Hey. It’s useful in the circs. Which are of a long low wall. And if you’re sleeping in the bed, shoved up against one narrow attic end, try not to sit up suddenly.
^^ We cleared out the big storage unit on Moving Day. But I kept the little unit with the BOXES OF BOOKS in it to give us breathing and manoeuvring space.
*** The one dormer window, while I’m glad to have it, also confuses the issue. If you’re in a simple triangular attic where the ceiling is a long narrow steeply pitched tunnel you know where you are. I had to go and get fancy with a nice dormer window. And a half loo. Which means you never know when the ceiling is going to leap out and whack you.
† And possibly bloody bandages. I don’t deal with STRESSSSSSS all that well and at the moment one of the manifestations is that I keep nicking myself when I’m cutting up chicken for the hellhounds possibly due to the prospect, hanging gibbering fantasmagorically in front of me, of their not eating it anyway. I took a tiny—TINY—slip of skin off the top of my thumb a few nights ago and it bled and bled and bled and BLED AND BLED AND BLED and I thought the cops would probably arrest me because I had clearly murdered someone even if they couldn’t find the body. I finally ended up with this giant egg-sized lump of every clean, absorbent, discardable bandage-like substance in the house first-aid-taped on the end of my thumb—what Penelope calls a Tom and Jerry bandage, and yes, I looked like a cartoon character who’d just hit her thumb with a hammer. Fortunately it was my left thumb so I could still type.
†† Or you may be normal and not overly preoccupied with the colour-coding of wastebaskets.
††† Yes, all right, I have roses on the brain, but the tiles are stylised flower-ish.
‡ And hundreds of bloody bandages after you murder that really annoying neighbour.
‡‡ These would be perfect, for example, on the side of a nice small sturdy bathroom-sized bin.
The Royal Horticultural Society has occasional spasms into home decoration. You can usually get tea towels but everything else is subject to the whim of . . . I don’t know who, but whoever they are, they need counselling. They were offering (pink) Redoute print ‘teabag tidies’ as they’re generally called a few years ago—which I use to put my large strainer of loose tea in after it’s steeped my morning cuppa to an opaque black—these lasted a season and then ran away and have never been seen again.^ On the very off chance the RHS was currently having a bin spasm I typed ‘wastebasket’ in the search box on the gift shop site. I promptly received the information that there were no results for ‘wastebasket’ but maybe I’d be interested in ‘russetbarked’? Snork.^^
^ Fortunately I bought three.
^^ in ‘Broadleaved Evergreens for Temperate Climates’. Not today, thanks.
§ Don’t speak to me of Cath Kidston. My everyday knapsack is one of hers—with roses all over it—and I have the denim-blue pullover from a year or two ago with the roses on the front that sold out first go in about TWO SECONDS^ and I got one on reorder fast.
^ Because there are a lot of us pathetic retro types around, which is why Cath Kidston is now worth £1,000,000,000,000 and as multi-gazillion dollar/pound success stories go I like this one better than most, especially the part about how she was repeatedly laughed out of town when she was first trying to sell this girlie vintage-style stuff.
But she doesn’t have wastebaskets. Of course I checked.
§§ I’ve always liked that believe. You’re still out there in the cold making up your own minds, guys.
§§§ Totally inauthentic, as well as a total retread, although not recently that I’ve seen. Never mind.
# Hahahahahahahahahahahaha. Oh well.
One of the nasty little surprises awaiting me at Third House* was the FRELLING BOXES OF OLD PAPER FILES. Crushed frelling boxes, just by the way, since they’d got mixed up with the backlist. But when Atlas was loading up his trailer to take backlist to the storage unit last autumn I asked him to set anything that wasn’t book boxes aside. And then life happened and the last few months Atlas has seen more of Third House than I have.**
It’s quite amazing how much STUFF is left after you’ve emptied a house. Curtains. Rolled up rugs. Bits of china you never liked and hadn’t decided what to do with. BOOKS THAT MUST BE SORTED. It’s also quite amazing how many old files I seem to have. Speaking of things that need sorting.
Twenty or thirty years ago when I was buying filing cabinets in Maine you could get black ones. Or grey ones. Or black. Or grey. Or . . . I bought black. But I did not love them, and I left them behind because standard British paper is longer than standard American paper and it wasn’t going to fit in standard American filing cabinets. I had a gorgeous old wooden filing cabinet at the old house, its only drawbacks being that it took ten strong men and a team of eight Shire horses to move it and that the drawers kept falling off their rails. It then declined to fit through the door at Third House. MORE ARRRGH. So I sold it, and put the files in cardboard boxes. Which I was going to deal with. Later.
Well. It’s later. And I have to WEDGE everything I had sprawled all over Third House into the attic because the ground floor is now Peter’s.***
I went on line. I searched for two-drawer filing cabinets, because they have to fit under the eaves that make the attic a living space for people who like crawling around on their hands and knees. COLOURED FILING CABINETS. COLOURED FILING CABINETS. Be still my heart. So I bought a PINK one. Of course I bought a pink one. Two pink ones is so obvious however so I bought a yellow one.† Yaaay.
Except that the on line description says ‘self assembly’. Golly, I thought, nuts and bolts. But I have my secret weapon, Atlas, so, fine. I ordered. And I had them delivered to the cottage because of the whole WHAT DO YOU MEAN DELIVER TO AN ADDRESS NOT ATTACHED TO YOUR CREDIT CARD AND OF COURSE WE AREN’T GOING TO TELL YOU WHEN WE’RE ARRIVING SO YOU CAN GET UP THERE TO ACCEPT DELIVERY. WHICH WE WON’T LET YOU HAVE ANYWAY BECAUSE IT’S NOT THE ADDRESS ATTACHED TO YOUR CREDIT CARD thing.
I don’t know what the self-assembly part is but two filing cabinets arrived today. I looked at them and my heart sank. I wasn’t at all sure even one of them lying on its side would fit in Wolfgang’s boot.
Wolfgang, my hero.
* * *
* That’s aside from the fact that we’re going to have to RIP OUT BOOKSHELVES to get Peter’s desk into his office. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE. What is wrong with it is that the second, smaller bedroom is now a staircase with a little angular wodge of semi-usable space around it. Arrrgh. Building regs^ ARRRRRRRGH. And Peter is so inconvenient as to have a LARGE desk. Why can’t he just balance his laptop on his knee? Feh. Half a wall of bookshelves has to go. Misery.
^ For anyone who wasn’t reading the blog then: I wanted to put a WEIGHT BEARING FLOOR in the attic for all the BACKLIST. As soon as you put in a weight-bearing floor the Building Regulation Goons are all over you. A weight-bearing floor means living space, never mind you can’t stand up in it. Or that it’s going to be full of boxes of books. Living space means you have to have a proper staircase. Good bye, second bedroom.
** Mowing the grass, propping up the frelling FRELLING boundary fence so next door’s evil little ratbag terrier doesn’t keep getting through and crapping all over my garden,^ taking over the garden shed with boy tools.
^ Evil little spiky-haired ratbag terriers are an entirely different, monumentally inferior order of being from, you know, bull coughcoughcough terriers.
*** This happens to involve carrying all 1,098 crushed boxes of files up the stairs to the attic again.
† I probably need three or four. I’ll worry about that LATER.
I’ve been planting sweet peas and singing. My poor neighbours. Theodora is very usefully deaf* and Phineas seems to think I’m fun to watch and possibly even listen to.** I do keep it down a little when I’m out front; I don’t want the military chappie over the road to decide to test the army’s new long-range assault weapon at home.*** This is the time of year when my garden suddenly gets away from me. There’s usually a misleadingly serene several weeks in early-mid spring when I think I’m finally going to get it together this summer . . . and I have managed to keep throwing out the ever-better this-season’s plant sales BUY BUY BUY BARGAINS TOO GOOD TO MISS catalogues which is where I usually lose it drastically†, especially during those disorienting few weeks in spring when there are gaps where I can see actual bare dirt,†† and the careful, all-at-once-so-I-can-remember-what-I’m-doing orders of the previous winter have faded perilously in my memory. Despite this unnatural restraint I still seem to have an awful lot of thriving baby and adolescent plants out there.
So it’s been a beautiful day and there are all these trays of no-longer-so-little plants gasping to go into something a little more permanent. The sweet peas have indeed rioted on to a degree I wasn’t expecting and have all plunged through their crumbly pressed-paper plant-as-is pots and reached little white roots into the surrounding compost . . . oops. Sweet peas hate root disturbance and these will now sulk for weeks††† . . . and if any of them does send out a questing tendril, you can be sure it will snake along the ground and then twist up the wrong frelling thing. Bamboo stakes? Boring. Garden wire run through eye-bolts in the house wall? Vulgar. Iron railing uprights? Feh. Other plants? . . . Possibly. But only things like snapdragons and petunias, not sensible things like roses and my little corkscrew hazel.
Gardening. It’s still critters, just more green and less fur.
* * *
* Her daughter isn’t, but she gets home latish . . . although not late enough this time of year when the sunlight goes on and on and you can be in the garden till nine. I admit that by 8:30 if you’re not noticing it’s getting dark you’re really determined not to pay attention^, but this can be arranged.
^ You probably don’t want to be weeding at this stage: all little green things look alike in twilight. You can certainly be potting on however. Some day I will get electricity put into my greenhouse . . . and then I can stay out there all night.+
+ With the bug zapper on high. ZZZZZZZSST. #
# Why are bugs so STUPID? And this includes nice bugs~ like bees. I know that house flies exist to be annoying and mosquitoes are after you, but bees, say, they fly into your dark house and make a pass through your kitchen and rather than saying, oh, wow, bad choice, and turning around and flying back out through the door again, they fly straight past the open door, duck around the frame, and bash themselves against a window. I had one of those small-dog-sized bumblebees~~ fly into the cottage kitchen this afternoon and mosey around like a medium-sized zeppelin. And she would not leave. I finally put a glass over her and took her outdoors like a bouncer dealing with the last partygoers.~~~ From the names she called me through the glass she was not amused.
~ A generic term for chitinous critters. Because I say so.=
= Back, taxonomists! You’re not wanted! Back, back!
~~ Pav and I met the Yorkshire terrier lady this afternoon while we were out for some hurtling. I made the mistake of telling a friend a few days ago what a nice dog Pav has turned into and she’s been possessed by forty demons ever since. It was by email! It’s not like Pav heard me! The Yorkie lady is a big Pav fan although on days like today that takes some concentration. Anyway I swear my bumblebee was larger than either of the Yorkie lady’s little bundles of fluff.
~~~ I suppose I should make exceptions for bees that I find climbing into my indoor flowers. I wouldn’t have thought there was anything to have off your average windowsill geraniums, but I’ve seen bees trying. Also popular are cut garden flowers—as opposed to florists’ flowers—bees appear to believe that nectar and pollen go on being viable even in a vase.=
= These are deadheading accidents, you realise. CUT flowers for the house?? Cut them OFF THE PLANT? Are you KIDDING?
** Also I feed his cat for him—the orange ex-hellkitten^—when he’s away. He wants to stay on my good side.
^ He’s so little. He’s not huge even as ordinary domestic cats go—he’s probably the small side of average—but if you’re used to dogs, if you have dogs twining up your ankles most of your life+, cats are such delicate little things. I realise this is an illusion but in terms of sheer weight even Pav is about three cats’ worth.
+ Nat on the forum asked if the hellhounds are whippets. I thought this was in ‘about’# but apparently it isn’t. Surely I’ve told you that they’re seven-eighths whippet and one eighth deerhound##? Well, it ought to be in ‘about.’ Furthermore I’ve forgotten all about putting poor Pav in. Not to mention Christianity, Street Pastoring and the Samaritans—or even voice lessons. So one of these nights I’m not writing a blog post I’d better update ‘about’.
Oh, and hellhounds are also ‘entire’ as they call it over here—they still have their testicles—which entirety also makes them a little bigger and sturdier than most whippets. The whippets and whippety dogs that look like they’re made out of pipe cleaners were often neutered too young.
# Top bar of the opening page of the blog
## Sighthounds are notoriously bad eaters. Of sighthounds, deerhounds and Salukis are notoriously notoriously bad eaters. SID EATS. Wish fulfilment? Sure. That and cliff hangers are why I enjoy KES.
*** And the evil vargleglunger over the back wall, the one with the shed with the tarpaper^ roof that sticks up over the wall and ruins my view, I should spend more time on that back border and learn the Queen of the Night to accompany my efforts. Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen! Hört, Rachegötter!!
^ Well it looks like tarpaper, which is to say ugly
† Speaking of windowsill geraniums, I have spent YEARS telling myself I will get all the geraniums^ off the windowsills and outdoors^^ this summer to be pruned and repotted and given some real sunlight, which geraniums usually like, before that irritating fellow Winter shows up again and spoils it. THIS YEAR I’m going to get . . . at least some of them outdoors. I am.
^ And begonias, poinsettias, spiky cacti, and various random houseplants
^^ the Christmas cacti and the hibiscus can stay indoors since they’ll have palpitations if I try and persuade them that photosynthesis is good and the sun is their friend
†† Or in my garden, I-just-frelling-cleared-there weeds, self-propelling courtyard gravel, and glimpses of all the plumbing in Hampshire.^
^ But you know I could use a few more petunias. And maybe begonias. I seem to have underordered.+ And I need to get back to the garden centre, I’m still waiting for my snapdragons. Snapdragons are necessary.
††† IN MY DEFENSE I’ve gone on bringing them in at night off and on till this week, and I’m still bringing the basil^ and the recently-arrived chocolate cosmos indoors overnight.
^ Basil always says, England? England? Are you kidding me? You’re expecting me to burgeon and produce fragrant Mediterranean leaves here? YES. I DO. AND HERE’S A NICE HOT SUNNY KITCHEN WINDOW LEDGE. SHUT UP AND GROW.
So, all this time I’ve clawed back by no longer writing a blog every night? Has disappeared without trace. Of course.
Today, for example, it has disappeared without trace by my having spent NEARLY TWO HOURS IN DENTIST FROM R’LYEH’S CHAIR OF DREADFUL TORMENT. Owwwwwww.*
Yesterday it disappeared because . . . MAJOR TRUMPET FLOURISH . . .
MY NEW WASHING MACHINE FINALLY ARRIVED.
This wasn’t easy. Even leaving out the amount of time I spent researching** frelling washing machines*** I was so freaked out by the PRICE of the one that was going best to cope with all the hair in this household† that I put off ordering it for most of another fortnight. Peter had grown a bit testy about my usurping his washing machine so I decided in that non-decision way that I hope most people who read this blog have experienced for themselves, that I would merely accumulate dirty laundry because, after all, I was going to buy a washing machine. Fortunately I have a lot of clothes†† although the hellpack is down to pretty much its final lot of bedding.†††
I had a four-hour delivery slot booked for Wednesday morning during which I paced the floor and wondered what I was going to do when the delivery persons Viewed the Situation and said they couldn’t do it. The Winter Table is still up because I’m still fetching recently-arrived-and-potted-up little green things indoors when the temperature starts re-enacting the Pit and the Pendulum. Plus there’s a hellterror crate since the last time any major kitchen appliances were brought in or out. Also, washing machines weigh. My last appliant purchase was the refrigerator—refrigerators weigh nothing. I can lift a refrigerator‡. A washing machine I can barely shove back into its corner when it starts walking across the floor. And they were going to have to wrestle the new marvel up the narrow flight of stairs with the black iron railing from street level to the front door, around the sharp 180 degree bend into the kitchen—and, while they were making that turn, lift it over the puppy gate, which is bolted to the wall.‡‡
They came. They viewed the situation. Their eyes got rather large. They withdrew to the street and muttered between themselves while I wrung my hands and thought dire thoughts about washboards and rocks in rivers.
BUT THEY DID IT.
I tipped them lavishly. They were, to their credit, startled, and I said: what was I going to do when you looked at this kitchen and said that getting large heavy camels through eyes of needles one storey up, over Becher’s Brook and at a 180° angle wasn’t in your job description?
I hope they got together and bought their wives a nice bottle of champagne.‡‡‡
* * *
* I won’t tell you what this thrilling^ experience did to my bank balance. OWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
^ I have told you, haven’t I, that the wonders of scuba diving are Forever Closed to Me on account of the number of hours I have spent in Dentist from R’lyeh’s chair staring at the video loop of tropical fish on the TV screen on the ceiling? I totally support+ the presence of distracting video on a TV screen on the ceiling. And I can forfeit scuba diving. Even though the fish are pretty fabulous. I’m grateful it’s not opera or BUFFY reruns.
+ And I do. See main footnote *
** You have to figure it’s going to be an important member of the family for at least a decade so, especially when it lives in the kitchen of your very small house, which happens also to be the room that (a) you spend the most time in (b) the main beds of your three fur factories^ indwell, which helps to explain (a)^^, you and it had better be good friends. ^^^
^ Note also: fur factories
^^ Remind me to tell you the Pav’s Bed in My Office story. Sigh.
^^^ Peter had Radio 4 on recently when it was a programme on psychological problems and the discussion was about hoarding disorder, which is apparently defined as an inability to throw things away to the point where the accumulation gets in the way of normal function. Hmmmm. One of the things they mention is when you can’t get into your bed because of all the stuff on it? Feh. I can still get in my bed . . . I may have to roll some of the books, knitting magazines and homeopathic journals over a little . . . and it’s true I’m an uncharacteristically quiet sleeper. But I was really thinking about this after I’d cleared off+ the old washing machine and the refrigerator, which was going to have to move to get it out, and had nowhere to put anything.
+ Mostly the stuff on top, which was in layers. But I also stripped off all the kitchen magnets . . . which fill a mixing bowl. A small mixing bowl . . . but still a mixing bowl. Not a cereal bowl or a soup bowl. You could definitely get a batch of muffin batter out of this bowl. I often have.
*** I think I told you I joined WHICH? http://www.which.co.uk/ just so I could read their washing machine reviews? They’ve got this clever hook-the-sucker system where you only have to pay £1 for a month of membership, including a copy of the magazine and free access to their gigantic site—and individual phone support for ‘consumer and finance issues’ which bait really attracted me after my recent scary, infuriating and demoralising banking experiences—and at the end of the month if you forget to cancel they quietly make you a full-price member because, after all, you gave them your credit card number for the £1. Fine. They got me. The magazine is full of interesting stuff. And now I’m researching juicers. ^
^ Everyone see this report? http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/science-news/10735633/Healthy-diet-means-10-portions-of-fruit-and-vegetables-per-day-not-five.html Good luck getting this one over to Person in the Street. But it is one of those Why [mild] ME Is A Good Thing Really moments. I have evolved, over the past sixty-one years, from a few frozen peas and a leaf of iceberg lettuce style reluctant veg eater to a major rabbit+. And in the last fourteen years—since the ME felled me—I am eating ten a day++. It’s a life style, okay? You get used to it. And I like broccoli.+++ I’m more inclined to take this report seriously—ten a day does seem like kind of a lot for someone who doesn’t already have chronic health issues—because they make the point that vegetables are more important. Yes. A large glass of orange juice with your chocolate croissant is not the same as a large bowl of broccoli . . . er, probably not with your chocolate croissant. I’d like to hear a little more about ‘juice is worthless’ however. Out of a carton, maybe. But I’d’ve said there’s pretty good substantiation for the belief that the Juicer Phenomenon is worthwhile. Although it’s another life style. At some point you have to wonder what you’re preserving your life for if you’re spending all your time preserving it.
+ Unfortunately my teeth don’t keep growing. That would solve a lot of problems, if the cavities just grew out and you could gnaw them off. Carrots are a lot cheaper than Dentist from R’lyeh.
++ Except occasionally when I’ve been in the Chair of Dreadful Torment and can’t chew.
† There isn’t nearly as much of mine but mine is LONG. You’d have to line up like fifty-three of Pav’s for an equivalent pilose factor. Pav, however, has plenty to spare.
†† Which is what happens when you like clothes, have been more or less the same size for nearly forty years, and have hoarding disorder.
††† There is less of this than there might be because the hellterror—like the hellhounds before her—used to eat hers When She Was a Puppy, which, of course, now being almost tw‡‡o years old she is not. Cough. Cough. But she did give up eating her bedding somewhere around her first birthday—which is better than can be said for Chaos.
‡ Well. I can lift a dwarf under-the-stairs size refrigerator.
‡‡ Because I was tired of it falling over every time Chaos stood up and put his forepaws on it. Which, being a rather dim sweetheart, he never took advantage of, and Darkness is above that kind of thing. Pav, however . . . it’s a good thing it was bolted in by the time Pav arrived.
‡‡‡ Or, possibly, husbands.