It's been a busy old few days.
I have barely had time to thrash the little grits onwards towards their autonomously-inspired educational achievements, let alone shackle them to the radiators.
But I had better note here the minor happenings which have passed while I have been a-busy, creating my delicious lovely things to catch your unguarded soul.
After all, you never know how things turn out. Any of the following minor events may be significant for the future.
1. Fish death.
It was sad. There was mourning. With a coffin.
The gas meter man arrived during the grieving process. The wailing had just reached a new height of emotion. I had to explain it, obviously, in case he thought I was up to something with child and manacle. I said there had been a pet death. He looked awfully sad and consoling, then I said it was a fish, not a cocker spaniel. He burst out laughing. Me, I would not dare do that. Thankfully, I shared a conspiratorial snigger with him by the gas meter.
2. Ceiling collapse.
Dig's office. An issue of not if, but when.
For many gloomy rainy seasons I have shuffled the buckets around the kitchen floor. Do not ask why a hole in the office roof has not been mended. Life is complicated. Anyway, the ceiling finally caved in, brought down, presumably, with August's rain, which we have stored there in the plaster and insulation. Well, I have abandoned the ceiling on the kitchen floor as a punishment. I will now source a new bucket, in extra-large.
3. Car crumpling.
I emerge at 9am one morning to drive the car dangerously round corners as normal, and I see someone has beaten me to the crumple point. One side of the car is totally bashed in. I suspect this is a result of the hard economic times we live in; more particularly, the man who runs the car shop down the road, trying to bring about my state of mind when I think it is worth trading in our old beat-up van for a nice new shiny van.
I can tell him now, it isn't going to work, driving your white van at speed towards my sides and rear at 2am. I am on my uppers thanks to filling the van up with fuel the other day.
4. The back door lock.
It keeps dropping off. The wilful disobedience of the thing is driving me insane. I hate the lock. It is telling me the awful truth that I need someone about the house who can do stuff. This is a profound confession, and I give it in a moment of weakness, the lock just having dropped off again, even though I have shouted, several times over, DO NOT DROP OFF.
Yes, I bought the book 100 Things You Don't Need a Man For, which hand-holds me from dripping-tap-mending to wobbly-door-hanging. No matter how helpful the text, I know it is all doomed. The state of my DIY skills are about as useful as a crippled poodle. I can just about wield a hammer, regardless of the task, but in all truth I am weary of taps and doors and locks dropping off. I want someone to sort it all.
On the bright side! I have half-mended the kitchen scales!
But I now look back and see that so many events have occurred! Any could, in the future, be significant. How
is one to know? How can you pluck from a million events the single
moment which will form more weightily in a life than all the rest?
Now I have come over all Proust, with echoes of crunch, memory of buttered toast, and wonder at significant insignificance. Soon I will be rearranging Squirrel's gravel collection, and marvelling at it all.