The Glum Housewife

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The plasterer has been and gone and all that remains of him is dust. 

Tory Boy has been to London and back and gone on ahead to Lancaster and all that remains of him is a mound of dirty washing and a room full of necessaries. 

The Hub has been to Painsville and back because the anti-inflammatories are now against the law and his chest infection has acquired squatters’ rights.  He was going to drive TB to uni today but he’s too unwell; he will follow with the necessaries when he can.  He will drive only; I will load the car and TB will off-load it.  The Hub also has a banging migraine, compounded by guilt at letting his son down. 

Spud Bud has gone to tea with his best friend because he’s bored with microwaved meals.  As are we all: home-made potato hash warmed up on Wednesday; Chicken Tikka in a box yesterday – tasty but anathema to me: I can’t see a frozen meal without getting a nervous tic.  I might be a lousy chef but at least it’s all home-cooked inedibles.  There’s bound to be some nutrition in there somewhere. 

The electricians left my stove connected but it was a waste of time because I made the mistake of cleaning it before they arrived and I think water leaked in somewhere and now the power trips if I put any of the rings on.  The oven still works but I’m taking bets on how long it will be before I kill that too. 

I don’t have any kitchen units or counters and my washing machine and dishwasher are not plumbed in.  So, a weekend of sitting around doing nothing is in order.  Woopdeyawndo.  On the plus side, my magazine pile is now down as far as May: Chico is predicting England will win the World Cup and the country is anxious that Rooney might do himself an injury before it starts. 

Today’s silver lining, sort of: I have discovered something astonishing – I am not as dirty as I think I am.  I find that I cannot write in a mess and the house is upside down inside out messy at the moment, so I sit at the computer playing games and can’t enjoy even that because it’s not as much fun without the pressure that I should be doing housework or writing.  I haven’t written a poem in days and I miss it. 

Signed, Self Pitying of Stockport