Like The Queen
Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.


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Monday, May 17, 2004  

I should have expected that the worst would be the last – and at some level, I did, so I’m not altogether surprised that we don’t have a functioning computer hooked up to the internet at home. I am even slightly glad, since I am suffering a bit with tendonitis in my hands. By Saturday night my hands hurt so badly I wondered if I could sleep. It will do me no harm to lay off a few days.

But those few days could extend into a mighty long, quiet week.

Poor BD. His office is spread out now over the entire house. The lint propagation beds are ready to be harvested. 10 years of accumulated dust mats, now little felted grey pads, are ready to be shipped out – any way we can ship them – most likely by vacuum cleaner.

I felt so wicked yesterday, a day of utter rest for me, while I read the first two volumes of the Precious Ramotswe novels – those delicious tales from the pen of Alexander McCall Smith. If you haven’t indulged, may I recommend them? They’re perfect companions on long warm afternoons, along with hammocks, tall lemonades and shady breezes.
The wickedness, though, arouse from my absolute refusal to offer to help him clean up his toys.

Our house is not so big. It’s only 7 rooms, counting the kitchen and a rather large bathroom cum laundry. Of those 7, the smallest is TheLord’s own and yet, barring the manhandling of large pieces of Victorian furniture, he has not done a lick of work on the great PutBack project. Those sweaty weekends when I was scrubbing off evidence of my benign neglect housekeeping skills, Himself was out taking walks or boating down to town or doing other things. It is his turn now.

Besides, all this stuff is his. I know neither what portion of it he wants to keep nor where it should go. I also have vast capacity to step around piles. Especially with a bedroom of such pristine cleanliness and a large blue wardrobe just begging to be filled with fiber stash. Of course, there is a limit to anyone’s tolerance to every thing. Which of us breaks first will be something of an undeclared competition. Will the victory go to BD,with the TenderHeartedOne offering to lend a hand, or will I triumph and eventually, perhaps sometime around Memorial Day weekend, step through the door after a long week and find swept floors, stacked papers and shelved books?

Where do you place your money?

Till I am restored, though, to that wee dawn ritual of coffee and blogs, I shall have to slip posts in here and there. Still knitting silk – still spinning finn.

posted by Bess | 4:50 PM