Very occasionally I’m quite pleased with myself. I was this afternoon, as I washed the kitchen floor having tidied up all the mess engendered by mould making.
It is not dainty. I wore the same plaster encrusted trousers for a week and shoes which are revolting, because of gravity. On some other planet you might have to clean the ceiling after a week of mould making, but on this one, when you have done: the sink, the worktops, the bowl, the bowl used for melting plasticene, all the tools, the broken knife, acres of kitchen roll, numerous hand towels, endless scrubbing brushes and all the rest, you clean the floor.
I was so exultant at having finished that I asked Alexa (who I normally never bother, even though she keeps reminding me, pathetically, that my shopping list is empty) to play Canon by Pachelbel and play it loud. I had it twice, then quite a bit of baroque music and finished with another Canon in D, because that is the hip place for a Canon to be.
What’s it all about (Alfie?)
This
Blimey! Moulds as far as the eye can see (as long as the eye can only see as far as the end of the dining table, which would be further if the OH hadn’t cut the end off.)
Yes I am very pleased with myself.
Will they all work?
Let’s not spoil it. Let’s leave them for a fortnight and then, when they are drier than the Sahara (with touches of Vaseline) let’s have a pour and see what happens. I might not be so pleased with myself then, but for now
p
p
p
p p
p p
d
etc.
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