A wily reader may have noticed that the entry for Friday is conspicuous by its absence. Friday was.. kinda not good. I had one of those “Aargh, my article’s due today and requires 48 hours’ worth of work” epiphanies, and the snortlepig added her piggy charm to the proceedings by weeping piteously if I removed her from my knee at any point in order to type with both hands. (Although actually, my one-handed typing skills are pretty leet. Having a baby gives one some unusual skills… looking dignified in a top which has been pooped on is another, as is conveying complex sentiments with the eyebrows such as “I’m terribly sorry, babies, what can you do, would anybody big and strong help me lift this pram onto the bus, yes, she is cute, isn’t she?” to a dozen separate passers-by.)
In a crisis, I did what every independent cutting-edge journalist female does and called my mother. Mother gallantly came over and removed the snortlepig while she went shopping; I typed using all ten fingers; and all was well. Sadly, though, this didn’t leave much time for 30 minuteses of gardening or unpleasant-activity-doing. (I did get the cleaning done in the morning, on the grounds that the snortlepig roared less stridently if I were moving about. I wonder if she’ll grow up to have an unnatural resentment of computers? Sobering thought.) So the weekly challenge ended on a bit of a whimper, as it turned out. To my thousands of fans, I apologise. I have failed you. I would commit seppuku, but all the good knives are in the dishwasher.
Anyway, today is Saturday. So there you go. We had a pretty good day. Went into town to find clothing, where I gained 50 frugal points for finding nothing wearable in the shops and buying a $12 second-hand skirt instead. I’m a little unsure about the skirt. It’s excitingly gothy with bits of fabric trailing below the hem, and I’m afraid my Aspie nature will cause me to jump every time the traily bits brush my legs, until I end up biting them off in a fit of rage. We shall see. It’s also a little big, and I feel excited out of all proportion at the prospect of putting a few pleats or tucks or something into it on my sewing machine.
Saturday nights, ie. now, Helpdesk Man routinely deserts me to watch movies with his Single Friends and recharge for a life of domesticity. I suspect there’s belching involved. Sometimes I invite people over for dinner to prove that I have a social life too, but given that, well, I don’t, this doesn’t happen every Saturday. So tonight I have decided to be virtuous and productive, so that my rows of home-cooked jam and sparkling doorknobs will accuse Helpdesk Man as he staggers in at 3AM, reeking of backgammon with a bit of blonde stuck to his shoe. More or less.
So I’m typing with my head covered in henna (the dude tried to eat some; wonder if she’ll have an orange uvula?), and have done some further work on sewing a couch cushion. If les enfant goes to sleep like a biddable pig I’ll finish the cushion and get started on her winter clothes; I also need to write a harem song for the Script Frenzy musical, empty the dishwasher, make something for church lunch, eat dinner and do as much cleaning as my heart desires. Probably not a lot, to be honest.