You know the Wallace and Grommit film where they were speeding along in a model train and Grommit was laying track just before they went over it? It’s like that at the moment and it’s not the best use of time. For example, this morning I had to take three sheets of information to each of 40 people, plus a different three to two others. I also had to do address labels, because there would only be about 2/3 of the people at the lunch (I’m aware that it couldn’t be exactly 2/3) so I need to know who to post the others.
Now, a sensible woman would have done it a few days ago so that I could get the sheets photocopied. I am sensible, but I’m busy, so I had to print them out myself. My having-been-turned-upside-down-and-shaken printer is working but still occasionally sticks, so I had to keep unjamming it, and when you’ve got whole lots of printing to do it’s remarkable how long it bloody takes. In the end, I rang the friends whom I was picking up and said I’d be late, and even then I left here at the revised time for getting to them. Amazingly, we were only ten minutes late at the lunch venue, that is, 12.10 for a 12-for-2.45 lunch. Which doesn’t even count as late.
But if I was able to work ahead rather than only just in time, I’d have had it sorted and not aged another year in a morning. Maybe next week I’ll catch up.
I haven’t reported back yet on the new dishwasher. Nothing to say really, it’s great. We’d gradually become used to one that wasn’t working so well and having to check to make sure that dishes were acceptably clean. If not, a sigh and some washing up done, or else fill with water and leave to soak for a bit before having a second go. On the first evening, I stroked my coffee mug happily, saying to Ro how lovely and smooth and shiny it was. “You mean, clean,” he pointed out.
Oh, and I love the new saucepans. All stainless steel and shiny. I think I’ve already mentioned the thick bottoms.
This morning, I made porridge and put the kettle on and got out a mug for tea. I caught myself about to pour porridge into the mug. Sighing deeply, I fetched a bowl, put it down, reflected on how dopey I am and then found I was pouring porridge into the mug anyway.
Oh, at the meeting last night I bought tickets to a ceilidh in a couple of weeks time. Oh go on, it’ll be fun. Or so I’ve assured the Sage. Who should believe me, both my children had a ceilidh band at their wedding, it being the sort of dancing that everyone can do, whatever their age or ability. I’m not sure about those with dicky hips, but what the hell?