Sunday afternoon. 4pm. I have entered the long dark teatime of the soul.
I have not had as many baths as I can usefully have in one day, owing to my defunct boiler. I have not actually had any, because I was going to go to the gym for a shower, but I cannot do this because I do not have a dry towel. Worry not, those of you who are devotees of the sainted Douglas. I know where all my towels are. They are in the garden, hanging out to dry, and that is one of the causes of my melancholy: I put three loads of washing out to try this morning, and have just noticed that it is raining.
I do not know if there is a rain god nearby, but I suspect so.
I have cooked slow roasted duck legs with pommes dauphinoises and eaten them. Fig and apricot crumble, ditto. At some point I will make cakes for tea, and no doubt eat those too.
Meanwhile, the precipitation continues.
My housework tasks for the day were:
- do the ironing pile
- clear out the bedroom cupboard
- washing the bedroom door and surrounding paintwork
I have done the ironing, but the other tasks are trivial and I can’t be arsed. I am instead watching a Morse rerun on telly. It was filmed in the 80s. This I know, because of the hair styles, which are offensive. At 6pm it will be followed by a Marple that I have half watched several times before, and I’ve no doubt I will be weak enough to half watch it again. At 8pm there is a brand new Marple, and if I’m not Marpled out by then I’ll watch that too. I may knit.
But the question still remains.
What is the bloody deal with the BLOODY weather? I’m sick of it. We’re ALL sick of it. I should be sitting in a park somewhere with my knitting, grilling my personal bacon in the sun.