I want it gone. Now.
Living in the furthest rural reaches of the country makes for a very exciting life. You can have hours of fun indoors, looking out on snow and ice, mud and floods, all shrouded picturesquely in mist and fog and impenetrably dull grey skies, and practice swearing, cursing, beating the husband – well, it’s not done to beat the dog, is it? - shouting, railing against the fates, anything you’d like to call it. In fact, while you are swearing, cursing, etc. you could not only invent new curses, you could also find a whole new set of phrases by which to call the activity.
My, what a pleasure.
Sorry to go all whingeing and whining and moaning on you once again – I am getting good at it, don’t you think? – but I was all set for a pleasant morning of beautification and pampering; and I am not one to forgo such pleasures without a tantrum.
Besides, I look in dire need of some restoration work.
There was nothing for it but to give in with a seriously bad grace and grab a tin of polish and some rags and vent my fury on a couple of pieces of furniture that have been standing around, not earning their keep, but getting duller and more and more stained and finger-marked, and give them a polish to make them squeak, the first for more than a year.
It helped. I am now too exhausted to swear.
I also noticed just now, when I was walking the dog, that the tree I have thought of as an ‘ash’ up to now turns into a dropoffilia in this weather.