What a week. I had so many good intentions that rather than paving a way to Beezelbub’s des res, I’ve built a motorway.
Intention No.1 was to produce 3 blogs this week. So far I’ve managed one. The reason being I got swept up in an impusive decorating frenzy. Having lived with bare plaster walls on my hall, stairs and landing for weeks now, I was bored with it; having lived with an uncarpeted wood staircase where the exposed carpet gripper waited to puncture unwary bare feet I was limping badly; having suffered all this, in silence mind you, I finally called in the Decorating Team. We did a deal. They’d do the painting if I bought the paint and did the prep. Being a bit on the skint side and, as a Yorkshire woman determined to uphold the reputation of that county for “careful” folk, I agreed. I mean it couldn’t take more than a bit of a wash and brush up on the paintwork surely?
Thirty-six hours later the D-team arrived – well actually there was only one of them and he had a bad knee. He looked at my handiwork and at my broken fingernails and my scabbed hands; he hurrumphed like a rhino getting ready for a bit of head-banging but then thought better of comment when he saw the Lizzie Borden axe I was holding. Not that I have psychopathic tendencies (I know, that’s what they all say) it was just that he caught me fulfilling Intention No.2 – the great log chop.
I have been given some huge old logs more suited to a roast-your-own-ox fireplace than my compact woodburner. My own electric saw proved too weak and feeble so the only alternative was an axe. (I expect Lizzie had these problems too). The first log behaved itself and fell neatly into quarters; the second however, had a mind of its own. Clearly it still resented its severance from the mother tree. This log managed to evade the carefully aimed axe blow, roll away down the drive, leaving the axe to whack me on that knobbly bone at the side of the ankle.
Of course this disaster completely threw out any possibility of achieving Intention No. 3 – to add 5000 compelling, sizzling, can’t-stop-reading words to my Ravensgill Saga. Instead it was back to the trusty old sofa, hugging my soft cashmere throw and nursing myself back to a semblance of sanity with a luscious, full-bodied Merlot.
“Lizzie Borden took an axe, and gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty one.
Close your door, lock and latch it,
‘cos here comes Lizzie with her hatchet.”
You have been warned.
Have a great weekend.