Even those of you die-hards who come here to see whether I am dead in a ditch probably won't recall The Pile flooded last winter. (Thanks to an electrician twiddling with a pressure valve - not the same electrician who actually electrocuted himself then ran from the house and locked himself in his van.)
While we were safely in Hong Kong, the cellar filled up like a swimming pool. When the water all drained away to who-knows-where, in its place grew a luxuriant vegetation resembling a reconstruction of a Carboniferous forest. I assured Dig, maybe in March, that if me and his daughters were to come home early, then I could sort out the vegetation and restore his attractive property to its former glory.
Needless to say, the cellar looks almost exactly the same as it did in March. In fact it may be evolving with giant insect life.
Meanwhile however, I have enjoyed a holiday in Suffolk, remodelled an old wooden garage into a child's art and craft room, and passed the remaining happy hours carelessly posing in front of a mirror and taking photographs of my bosom adorned by a lot of 1980s clothing to amuse any passer by. (If they are really coming to look at this, they probably have something missing in their life.) (Come to think of it, the act of putting it up here suggests I have something missing in my life. Taste, dignity, that sort of thing.)
Well, no more of that. Time is up. Dig is returning to The Pile very soon. One of his first questions, after the upbringing of his three daughters, is sure to be the condition of the cellar.
So that is what I must do. If you find a photoblog in place of a 1980s two-piece, assume I am up a stepladder with a bottle of disinfectant and a torn pair of cotton underpants because I am too mean to buy a cleaning cloth.
I think scraping off mould is a very unattractive idea, now I have put it down in actual letters.
I might just have to sort out that last hidden box, the one with the fantastic nylon snakeskin, then I might check the ticket availability for a quick trip with the kids into London.
If that fails, I'm sure I can eye-spy the ironing.
