I have been cleaning and I don't even have anyone coming to stay.
When the children saw me cleaning they'd always ask who was coming.
Which reminds me of when I made cakes when the children were young. They'd come home from school, see a cake, look longingly and say, 'Who is the cake for?'
You see I modelled my parenting on Marmee from Little Women who was forever taking baskets of food to the needy. (Actually thinking about it that was how Beth ended up dying prematurely. It's a wonder my well-read daughter didn't point out the dangers to me.)
If I said, 'It's for us,' their little faces would light up and then cloud for a moment before checking, 'For us - to eat?'
Anyway, cleaning is a procrastination: I am supposed to be writing my article for The Bay. I have the funny story; I just need the God bit to slot into it. And I do mean slotted rather than crow-barred although if it comes to it, anyone got a crowbar?
1 comment:
'slotting it in' does sound rather more ladylike, I feel.
I've only seen a crowbar seen once, when an elderly neighbour fell down the stairs in the middle of the night behind her Fort Knox-type door. Another neighbour produced a crowbar and we could get in and keep her warm while the ambulance came. Afterwards all the police wanted to know was why he kept such a thing in the house. I was just glad he did.
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