Long, tiring week at work, and so much stuff that should be sorted, but I'm just knackered and will take it slowly. It's warm and humid, and I really should tackle the garden, but I might give it another hour until it's cooled down a bit before I mow the lawn and do a bit more tidying. Discovered that two more full water butts have now collapsed around their makeshift stand and are leaning into the one standing butt. Thank you Sankey, you bunch of inept plastic shapers. I really needed that at the end of a week like mine! I must empty them somehow before I can sort this mess out, and I've spent part of the morning doing so, but then I tripped over OH's electric cabling, which he had simply left lying exposed and curling on the ground in a long blue noodle and hadn't bothered to dig under, and nearly pulled out the live wire leading to my shed -- and I thought, that's it, I've had enough, enough, enough, of anymore of this look-I've-done-this-wonderful-thing-for-you-(but-can't-be-arsed-to-finish-it) BS.
It doesn't help that I'm fretting about getting the house visitor-ready while OH couldn't care less. OH's attitude to his parents arriving in the midst of this building site/vegetable processing factory that is currently our house is really quite breath-taking -- he thinks, naively, that they're just happy to see us. I however am pretty certain that they'll be happy to see HIM, yes, but then turn around and judge ME for allowing their Golden Boy to exist amid such squalor and chaos.
I tell OH of my fears as we wandered into town last night to spend money made on a successful ebay-style sale. He's unconcerned. "So what if they don't like how we live? They'll be gone again on Monday. Would we really change anything about how we do or don't do things around our house on the basis of their disapproval? No, of course we wouldn't. Because it's our house. Chill."
"I can't chill," I retort. Because I know they'll be wanting to help around the kitchen, and pull drawers out and discover that the fronts all come off in their hands and don't fit back on, they'll be the one to witness the one mouldy strawberry rolling out from under the fridge that we've overlooked or find a maggot in the raspberry jam or the lone survivalist ant sheltering in the pot of basil on the window sill. And I bet the downstairs loo will block up again that very weekend. I just know.
Basically, I'm seeing the house through my own critical eyes and realise that I'm tired of living in a tip, roomy as it is, but haven't got the will or the energy to tackle the 10,000 little things that would need sorting before the house is where I really want it.
Maybe I should make a list. Lists are good.
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