What a week! From landscaping patios and gravel paths to rehoming snails followed by the Paston Letters, the Cumbrian coast and trying to locate a 26in television set at a moment’s notice.
So, it always rains on a bank holiday doesn’t it? Why then did I suggest bank holiday Monday as the perfect day for re-landscaping the Number One Daughter’s back garden? By three o’clock we all looked as though we’d been through a mud bath. The Right Little Madam had demonstrated staying power, construction skills and a fellowship with David Attenborough and Gerald Durrell by rescuing snails from my fiendish attempt to relocate them elsewhere a long way from the remnants of the Number One Daughter’s tulips. She was ultimately found with six, named, snails in her bedroom. “They’ve come to play because its raining.” They were escorted back to the wild with the Right Little Madam keeping a firm eye on me to make sure I didn’t give them flying lessons – apparently the adage that travel broadens the mind is not one that the child feels applies to snails.
She wasn’t terribly pleased to discover that her grandfather had accidentally killed a worm whilst digging the base out for the patio either so having deposited team snail in the shrubbery spent the next half hour or so working as a dedicated worm rescue team of one moving them from the line of the spade. I’m not sure that HWIOO found it terribly efficient having to pause at the turn of every spade of earth in order for the Right Little Madam to sift through the mud but there you go.
Over lunch, as I sat dripping onto the Number One daughter’s Laminate floor I asked if the Right Little Madam might consider becoming a vet but she informed me that as much as she liked spiders she didn’t feel she’d be able to make one better as she wasn’t particularly keen on tarantulas. I hadn’t noticed a stream of people taking their arachnids to the vets but what do I know? So I suggested that she could be like David Attenborough who has been all over the world studying animals. The Right Little Madam peered at me over the top of her glasses, “Has he been into space?”
“Uhm, I don’t think so.”
“I’d like to go into space or make pots.”
So there you have it – a space going potter – which just about sums up the entire conversation. Mind you I’m about to add to her pet population with a watering can of nematodes just as soon as they arrive which should sort out the slug and snail problem without me being held responsible for their removal or causing a falling out with the neighbours.
The tv set? You really really don’t want to know. Suffice to say we found one of the right size and make but the remote control is too small for my mother-in-law which means I need to find a large universal one with as few buttons as possible before she has the tv sent back to where it came from and summons us north to buy something else. At least HWIOO wasn’t required to go up onto the roof of her bungalow to fiddle with the aerial which is what the first idea revolved around. We wondered why she said it was a pity that he wasn’t wearing jeans and trainers when we first arrived. I may need to work on the message about dizziness, vertigo and having arrived at an age where scrambling around on a roof trying to get the best signal for Coronation Street isn’t really an option so far as HWIOO is concerned.
Tomorrow the joys of fitting a new rubber seal to the washing machine. Yes, there will be a post – assuming I’m not reduced to incoherent gesticulation by this time tomorrow night. There’s also the small matter of Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves and the demise of Thomas Cromwell to occupy my time.