Why is it Wednesday? It doesn’t feel like a Wednesday. Today has a distinct tang of Thursday about it, and it makes me glum every time I have to quell that little flash of anticipatory Friday hopefulness. I think I’m going to take this up with the committee.
Renovations in Feng-Shite Central continue apace. Last night a pair of gentlemen who spoke about as much English as I speak Cantonese came and skulked about the place, promising to return on the weekend to “fix” the bathroom (read: apply another coat of non-waterproof paint to the radiator in the shower stall). They seemed polite – they smiled a lot, at any rate; though for all I know they could have been calling me a Dishonourable Girl Whose Slatternly Housekeeping Will Bring Shame Raining Down Like Burning Coals Upon Her Family straight to my face.
Today as I came home from work I had to dodge another set of spurious handymen applying a second coat of stinky paint to the stairwell. The stairwell is about as wide as a mail slot, leaving me no option but to take the dog out down the slippery, dodgy, reputedly condemned back staircase, in the dark, in the rain, in clunky platform boots (mock me as you will – Frankenstein’s Monster will always be a fashion icon to Robin of the Disproportionately Miniscule Feet). (My, I seem to have an Itchy Shift-Key Finger today.)
And did I mention that it’s raining? I’m NOT COMPLAINING, because it could easily be a Siberian onslaught of pelting ice at this time of year; but the rain has actually transformed the dog park into a bog. (It’s a bog park! Ha ha! Wait – hang on – that’s totally not funny.) It was so fucking swamp-like that I half expected to see dead Vikings squelching about. But my ridiculous tall boots kept the mud at bay! Now who’s laughing, hey? Laughing all the way to the bog. S’right.