Home Run

I have sneaked upstairs while the floor downstairs is drying. Sneaked away from who? Well, no one, of course, seeing as I'm my own boss of de house, but old habits die hard, even ones from 30yrs ago. I find it very annoying to find these subconscious issues banging me on the nose when they have no business to be doing so.

Regular readers of this blog will know that I hate housework but that I do it anyway because I'm not a total slob. However, it really grates because I'm having to force myself to put hoover to floor, mop to water and duster to dust. Naturally, I feel guilty at having such a negative attitude to something so banal, but it's the relentless inevitability of it - that and having two boys in the house who are champion mess-makers.

So I battle on, but feel a small victory of relief when a wet floor obliges me to take a break upstairs. I could, of course, be cleaning upstairs too, but I did that the other day (except for hoovering my room thanks to that damned XBox wifi widget thingy), and it hasn't got so bad it needs another bash.

Yesterday, Ulysse infuriated me by catching a mouse and then puking the whole thing up on the floor, followed by a running puking tour around the house for good measure. I felt like puking myself as I cleared it up. My only consolation is that he kept off the beds and the Persian rug. Otherwise he might have ended up a non-cat... My eldest, ever one to wind me up, phoned me to let me know that Ulysse had done this, but declined, politely, my suggestion that he clear it up.

Today he phoned me to let me know that his bike had torn his trousers to shreds, not that I was going to do anything about it. I must get him out of this 'semi-crisis' call habit. Not only is there no point because I'm not going to rush about sorting it out, but it irritates the hell out of me knowing that there is an unpleasant thing awaiting me.

He will be forbidden from calling unless the house is on fire. I don't want to know about vomiting cats, torn trousers, spilt milk (unless it's on the sofa in which case CLEAR IT UP NOW!), XBox issues, muddy shoes, derailed bike chains or any other minor problem.

I do want to know about fire, broken bones, burglary and car theft. That's about it really. I would dash home for those real crises. Anything else can wait, no?

Further suggestions on a postcard please.

Making an Effort

I'm feeling guilty. Yeah, I am. I should be writing about the incredibly important world events that are taking place - the banking crisis, for example. All that mis-management finally coming home to roost with catastrophic economic results across financial markets and elsewhere.

I listen to economic analysis on Radio Classique as I come back from taking my eldest to school. I'm listening but am I concentrating? Hmm... I'm also trying to navigate my way around dense traffic on dodgy roundabouts, and sit in traffic jams making sure I'm with it enough not to just go sailing into the car in front because I thought it was moving off. Easily done.

So I'm listening with only half an ear, the other half forming part of my 'Get home in one piece' brain activity. I've duly noted the rescue plan of $700b which was rejected, and has now been accepted by the Senate. I'm hoping that failed executive bankers are not going to receive their 'Get out of trouble with a $5m mercy package' but rather a good kick up the backside which is what they'd give their employees if they did something really professionally bad.

Then there's Sarah Palin, for whom ambition is everything, and short-sightedness not confined to her sight. If I were American, the mere prospect of her taking over from a defunct McCain as US prez would have me running for the ballot box with the biggest marker pen I could find and printing the blackest most indelible black cross next to Obama's name. America is in enough trouble as it is without yet another puppet prez at the helm.

As it is though, I can't really talk about any of that stuff because I'm in mourning. Our Helena (Frith Powell) has left France and moved to Abu Dhabi. Her husband accepted a job there (with Colin Randall?) and so, before the kids 'became totally French' they decided to bugger off, leave 'the' Languedoc and head for the desert.

Not sure why she refers to Languedoc thus. It's like people who say they're going to The Gower, when it's either The Gower Peninsula or just Gower. Languedoc is either The Languedoc Region, or just Languedoc. Would you say 'I'm going to The Essex'? Only if you were going down the pub, I hope.

Anyway, you'll be relieved to know that our Helena is taking with her her new found discovery of the joys of wearing matching undies, and that, living next to M&S in AD she'll be able to indulge her passion, although I presume she doesn't mean in the white cotton maxi knickers section...

She'll no longer be able to write about how perfect French women are, pandering to Daily Mail readers, and how much like everyone else they are to The Times readers who are not so dupe...

Once I've got over our sad loss, maybe I'll be able to get down to concentrating on world events...