Gracious living: it’s not something I major on, I admit… unless a jug of warmed milk for the coffee this morning counts.
Ungracious living is more my thing, so it was nice to find this on the youngest daughter’s wall this morning. Even better that I could walk on her small patch of bedroom floor without kicking my way through a pile of crap.
It seems that even amongst such domestic disarray a little girl has some room in her heart for romantic and chaotic swirling in purple. Thank goodness for that, although I can claim no credit.
Last night was, as I have said, Hotter than July. I didn’t sleep too well. The Rudi Dog has the sense to stay downstairs in this heat, but as the night and early morning wear on he cannot help but come and lie on my legs, pinning me to the bed and adding to heat generation in the bedrooom for which I am sure there is a mathematical equation that could help run the National Grid in kilojoules. Or one of those airplanes that fly on solar powerered batteries – in the dark. I’m not going on one of those ever, but I might consider a two-seater kept aloft by the heat generated by a lurcher.
Anyway, there I was, dog on the leggage and so in comes the cat. Another furry hot animal trying to find a space. The cat though is so infrequent a visitor that I felt honoured to be overheated yet further by her Imperial Presence. When I mentioned the overnight overcrowded hot furry animal situation to the Guv’nor he took it to mean that I was referring (refurring?) to him as a furry hot animal. I was not.
So there was no reason for his first words this morning, other than it being sad but true, which were:
You look like you’ve been run over!
Which he later clarified over a pint:
Why did you look so creased? You were sleeping on the mattress, not underneath it. Oh and you looked in need of an emergency dose of Botox.
Maybe I should skip the eye-cream and invest in a Hoffman Press.
Who said romance was dead?