Precious weekends

One of the problems with working full time is a constant search for ways to stop looking permanently exhausted. I only need to observe the faces of retired friends or those who have cut down their hours of paid employment to know this to be a truism: lines (which are not interesting) have fallen by the wayside. It’s no way to live your brief life even if it has currently been made all the more exciting by a major cull of management types in the recent re-structuring. Another dilemma is what to do with the weekends. They must, by all means, be accounted for; but, does this mean doing absolutely nothing in order that one can relax? Or, does it infer that every precious second must be filled…in order that one can relax?

I have a number of jobs that need to be completed. First, I must de-frost the freezer. Somebody failed to shut the door properly so now it offers excellent evidence for those that adhere to the view that global warming is a conspiracy theory: packs of bacon cling lovingly to the walls whilst other food is so completely disguised by glaciers that it’s impossible to guess what it might have originally been. I’m anticipating seeing the northern lights the next time I want a packet of minced lamb. I don’t know who’s responsible for this frozen Armageddon. Currently, I’m the only person living here so I’ll blame it on Nigel the handyman (every woman needs a Nigel) who came to mend the fridge door when I was out. Anyway, it seems like first job on the agenda unless I want to crouch on the kitchen floor, dangerously, hair dryer in hand.

The grass needs cutting: quite a simple procedure as my lawn is about the size of a gnat’s handkerchief. However, the lawn mower is in the shed which means that those persons who kindly lent my beloved son a large bike to get to his job at the pub have to come and remove it before I can retrieve the machine. This done, someone (that unknown person who’s put the spanner in everything) has worked out how to apply their Origami techniques to a piece of metal and have managed to fold the mower into something akin to an A4 sized piece of paper with no instructions as to how it might be unraveled into something functional. In the middle of this, one of the local aliens who hasn’t spoken to me for at least six months, arrives at the front door to ask whether I have anyone in the house fit enough to lift her suitcase downstairs as it’s too heavy. She apologises for it being Sunday. I just apologise and send her on her way. Why not pack it downstairs?

And then there’s the dishwasher that doesn’t wash dishes. I’ve had the thing in pieces. I’ve washed every washable part. I’ve done the salt thing and the rinse-aid thing. I’ve tried as many different varieties of tablets as exist. And now I’ve hand-washed everything that we used last night…..which was quite a lot! You can’t get a plumber for love nor money (and if you’re reading this Bob, it’s not aimed at you).

So, I missed the literary tour of Bournemouth this afternoon. But, because I had a sense of impending doom, I did take the shore-line walk this morning and took great pleasure in saying ‘good morning’ to all those who deliberately avert their eyes. And, amongst other things, stopped to watch a heron. That was nice. A twitcher in the making I feel.