More often than not I struggle to find space in my diary for a meeting, a catch-up with a friend, or even to take Mum food shopping. Yet I am not in paid employment, have no kids, and have a cleaner (two, in fact) and a gardener. Plus, Hubby is reasonably house-trained. How do people manage without such cards stacked in their favour?
Yesterday was a prime example. Sunday was supposed to be a stress-free day, culminating in an 8pm skink with a couple of mates (that’s skyping plus drinking for those readers who missed an earlier blog). This digital exercise was nothing to do with Covid-quarantining and everything to do with us being geographically challenged when it came to meeting in Buckinghamshire. The timing worked perfectly for me, as Hubby and I would have comfortably finished dinner and I’d be half way down my second glass of red.
Then woops. One of my mates couldn’t make 8pm; could we do 5pm or any evening the next week except Wednesday. As it happened, Wednesday was the only evening I was free. So I looked at 5pm this evening. Hmmm. If I get back home pronto from Mum, prep all the ratatouille veg before lunch, have a nice hour or so at the Cublington Fête with my neighbour, whom I shall call H, there’ll be enough time to stud the leg of lamb and boil the potatoes for mash (roast spuds would have to be a causality), join the Skype call at 5pm, put the oven on at 5:40pm, pop the lamb in at 5:50pm, leave the call at 6pm, immediately start the ratatouille off, and we’d be all set to eat at about 7:45pm. So I confirmed that 5pm was fine.
Except.
I just got back from Mum’s and was half way through prepping the veg when Hubby phoned. Flat tyre. Nay. Blown tyre. Could I rescue him and his bike on the scary A-road this side of Whitchurch. Having negotiated a safer collection point not a million miles away from the dangerous verge where he’d come to an ignominious halt, I put the veg in the fridge and jumped in the car.
Hubby was easy to see in his bright red lycra and with his bright red bike, and the farm entrance was nice and safe. He twisted and squeezed the bike into the back of my car (thank God for the Honda Jazz magic seats) along with copious amounts of mud and grease and plonked himself, wet clothes and all, in the passenger seat.
Back home, he took his time having a shower while I stood there poised with wooden spoon in hand, scrambled egg ready to go in the pan, and an eye on the clock wondering if we would have finished lunch before H came round.
Just in time.
I forgot to warn her that Hubby had sat in that seat in wet clothes a few minutes earlier. I hoped her raincoat was long enough so that she wouldn’t notice. Anyway, we got there quickly, parked easily, and made our way straight to the second-hand book stall.
Now here’s a funny story. H had at last got round to disposing of the boxes of books from her daughter’s bedroom, her Uni degree being in the dim and distant past. H had taken them down to her friend who was collecting books for the stall at the fête and was very pleased with herself for having completed her task.
“Not that anyone will buy them,” she said to me during our Wednesday evening drinks last week. “I mean, these days who wants to read Chaucer and the Romantic poets.”
I do, H. I do. I’d have taken them all and saved you the trip. Now I’m going to have to go to the fête and buy them back again!
Which is why we were rummaging around all these books written by the likes of Joanna Trollope (Trollope by name, Trollopey writing), JK Rowling (whom I only tolerate because, while she can’t write for toffee, the brave lady speaks her mind) and autobiographies by the rich and famous that are rich in ego trips and famous for being a waste of money, and Prince Harry’s hasn’t even been published yet.
At last. Chaucer. And here’s a huge Romantic-poetry anthology. But all the others appeared to have been sold – probably to some modern-day Uni student who’s stockpiling works by racists, misogynists and colonialists before they’re all burned by the wokerati.
Then H bought me a Pimms, well I wasn’t going to say no, and we came home in time for me to stud the lamb with rosemary and garlic. Except it took me longer than I thought, as did delivering the village newsletter, so I only barely made the 5pm Skype.
It really would have been easier if we could have rearranged for an evening this week, but most of my evenings and indeed days are absolutely chokka at the mo. Why?
My ruddy shoulder (see a previous blog for a potted history). I’m going into hospital to have it fixed under general anesthetic. I need to quarantine because of Covid for a few days before, then I’ll be out of any sort of productive action for at least a week, in a sling for another five weeks and unable to drive for a total of eight weeks.
I can’t believe how much I’ve had to do in readiness. In order of decreasing importance, I’ve had to get my brows and lashes tinted so I don’t have to bother with make up while I’m in hospital; get my hair cut before I go in and arrange eight weekly visits to the salon to have it washed and dried properly; buy new PJs and slippers for hospital and over-sized shirts for comfort; stock up the freezer with quality ready meals; book Waitrose delivery slots; find a new cleaner; catch up on and tie loose ends on saving-the-planet stuff; and sort out care for my Mum.
The last one was easy in a way – darling sister is taking eight-weeks unpaid leave to come and live with her. However, I still have to cancel meals on wheels; cancel the twice-weekly care; order extra milk from the milkman; get the microwave fixed that broke a while ago; get the washer-dryer fixed that just broke, but broke too much so had to order her a new one; get her plumber to service the boiler – where IS that guy?!; clarify a council tax query; and sort out a bank account muddle.
Yer see if I had a proper job, kids, worse-trained Hubby, no cleaner or gardener, how would I cope? I might not have been able to arrange my brow and lash tints.
Nightmare!
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