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| When only chocolate will do... |
If yesterday had been Friday 13th, I could have
forgiven it for throwing quite so many spanners in the Sparrowholding works, even
though I don’t tend to believe in such superstitions – note the caveat “tend to”
to cover myself...
By yesterday evening, there was only one solution to ease
the frustration of the day’s proceedings. And as I don’t drink (although at
times like this, I almost wish I did!), instead of grasping for a gin bottle, I delved
into my precious, swiftly diminishing, tin of Angelina’s potent hot chocolate powder
that DD1 brought me from Paris.
Once the chocolatey concoction was ready for the finishing
touches, I added a dollop of cream to compound my imminent cholesterol crisis
and ferreted out two Cadbury’s flakes from their hiding place in the dark
recesses of the kitchen cupboard. And,
before you ask, let me indulge in a little prolepsis: “no, the ‘get fit and
slim for 50th birthday’ campaign has not been going well recently.”
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| Warning: Do not leave your bag unattended at any time. |
The morning had started out reasonably successfully, with
the usual feeding of the ravaging ovine (x20) and equine (x1) hordes. Being keen to minimise the effort required in
all such practical tasks (did someone say “lazy”?), I am indebted to my little brother
for creating his cunning feed Blox (also ideal for the occasional game of outside
Jenga! – see below). I’m perfecting my
technique of throwing the said blocks over the fence some distance into the
field to land suitably spaced apart, thereby avoiding any ructions between the eager
recipients.
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| Jenga: farmer style |
Next it was back to the copywriting coalface, there to pen
two articles about summer holidays. Despite
the six inches plus of soggy snow that I’d just waded through in the garden, surprisingly
I was able to conjure up convincingly idyllic images of scuba-diving in the
Caribbean and to rave eloquently about the marvels of Mexico, all without the slightest
trace of bitterness.
As soon as the first article was finished, I emailed if off
in triumph before proofreading the second.
And just as well I did, because literally two seconds later, my Broadband
disappeared. Now as any freelance writer will tell you, Broadband is like the
blacksmith’s anvil or the vicar’s bible – it’s difficult to do one’s job
without it. Especially when one is slowly ticking towards the deadline for
submission with no means of sending one’s masterpiece to the expectant client.
Never mind, I thought to myself smugly: I have a dongle! It
took me about quarter of an hour of searching the house in vain to remember
that I had, in fact, left my briefcase out in the car. So I hauled on my wellies
(down, spellcheck, down!), dashed to the car, retrieved the bag and shut the
passenger’s door. At which point the
rear window of my trusty wee Fiesta gave a loud crack, shattered into an opaque
mosaic and descended into the boot. Brilliant. The day was getting even better.
I hotfooted it back into the house to ring Farmpa and see if
he could help me out of my predicament (not least because I had several
tutees to teach in a village about four miles away that evening). Then I remembered the unsent article, whipped out the dongle (retrieved at the price
of the rear windscreen) and connected up to my Netbook in fervent hope.
This is not a solution that I have had to resort to often – which
is why, as I rapidly discovered, I had absolutely no recollection of the user name and password required to access it... Foiled again, and the deadline had now come and gone.
Fortunately my lovely client was being incredibly kind and understanding, which
helped to lessen the stress slightly.
Cue a ring at the doorbell: a duo of primary school aged sisters had arrived
for their weekly French lesson.
As they left 45 minutes later, my giggling mini-French
students could hardly wait to tell their “professeur” that large flakes of snow
had begun to fall – straight through the gaping hole in the rear of her car. Things were improving by the minute,
n’est-ce pas?
It is at times like this that I know for certain that I have
the best parents in the whole universe. For Farmpa and Supergran stoically drove 30 miles up
the M90 in their aged (but fully glazed) farm Discovery, which they duly exchanged
for my far from fully fenestrated Fiesta. Consequently, I could now venture out into the white outside world to
instruct more avid tutees, this time in the delights of English prose.
By the time I’d finished teaching, and had emerged into the
darkness to drive home, the 9-inch layer of snow that had been precariously perched on top
of the ‘Disco’ had slumped forward, mini-avalanche style, onto the front
windscreen.
Having no gloves or even a jacket with me (I had left home
in haste, after cobbling together a tarpaulin cover for the rear window
of my car), I had to use my bare hands to remove about half a tonne of snow, icy
handful by icy handful [note to pupils: repetition for effect], until the
windscreen wipers were eventually unearthed and functional.
By this time, my digits had long since lost any feeling
whatsoever – until, that is, I was driving home and the blood began to flow
through them again. I had forgotten just
how painful an experience that can be – it brought tears to my eyes, I have to
confess – yet it seemed, in semi- masochistic fashion, to be a perfectly fitting
conclusion to a pretty foul day.
I returned to find HunterGatherer in bed (at 9.30pm – these
farming chiels like their beauty sleep!). Unfortunately for him, he was soon 'unearthed' and put to work installing the new BT Hub, which had fortunately
arrived in my absence. And joy of joys: within half an hour I
was back online, and so far so good.
Better still, my fingers rapidly recovered as I clutched my gloriously decadent mug of hot chocolate until, fuelled by purest cocoa-power, I felt ready to
face another day!
