I did remark some posts ago about the disappearance of time as soon as the Min is but a few weeks hence. Three currently.
Do scroll down if you visit weekly, or even, weakly, this is the third post in the last two days because stuff keeps happening.
I had forgotten how difficult eye setting can be. I have a small tin of eyes left, having bought all there was, when my brilliant behind the Iron Curtain eye maker died. The search for a substitute continues, currently several years old. Therefore every eye is precious. As you saw a few posts ago, three heads split in the kiln. Today out of the heads that were left, which had been china painted, only five could be fitted with any eyes.
Fitting is hard on the eyes, especially mine. Eyes are temporarily placed in the eye sockets, which have been lined with sticky wax. Going through the tin to find the eyes, finding a hand made pair that is a fit for each hand made socket, lining the eye interior with wax, placing the eyeball with tweezers and rotating the shiny, slippery eyes with metal tweezers so they both look in the same direction, takes about an hour an eye. If all goes well. As the eyes are squished into the sockets the wax squeezes out until you cannot tell your pupil from your iris, at the drop of a feather they will spin until they are looking into the head and the only way to see if they are at all equal is to use the sun or shine a torch from behind the head, through the eyeball. This being a bank holiday there is a dearth of sun, so I spent five hours shining a torch in my own eyes.
After I had trickled the plaster into the heads I was ready for a rest and some tea.
The OH was being martyred and ignored. Possibly one caused the other, so he determined, it being a bank holiday and funds being low, to cook himself some soup.
He put the kettle on, prepared his veg and then put the pressure cooker on the hob, and left the kitchen for a nice sit down.
Light blue touch paper and retire.
Bang! Or, possibly, BANG!!.
Yes the pressure cooker helpfully exploded giving the kitchen a light coating of soup.
Having established that the OH was still in one piece, I stayed out of the kitchen, hoping for my little break from work, which was definitely the triumph of hope over experience.
It was, apparently, my fault for not adding kitchen roll to the shopping list that the half a roll that mopped the floor did not have a companion to substitute for the empty carboard roll.
I had also, annoyingly, hid the fourth floor mop pad (in the sun room, dry, off the washing line.)
And it was definitely my fault that the ancient steam floor mop, retrieved from the garage, and demonstrated, took half an hour to get slightly warm, having died, apparently.
After the ninety ninth swear, shout and explosion from the kitchen, I gave in, and walked round the corner to the garage to get kitchen roll.
Then I emptied the warm water from the dead steam mop. Then I washed the floor. Then I put all the towels, mop heads and so on in the washing machine, made a fresh pot of tea, hung the mop heads on the line and then
And then it was time to go back to work.
Nothing like a restful bank holiday.
It really was.
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