Is there such a thing as time off?

Yesterday my husband and I went out, bought the Sunday papers, a crap video, 2 bags of maltesers and five bags of 10p crisps and decided to spend the afternoon in bed chilling. I battled the urge to do the hoovering, clean the kitchen or bathrooms and took the afternoon off. A rare thing indeed. And very lovely it would have been too.

However, after a phone call from our neuro surgeon landlord, it became clear the afternoon off was never to be. He is coming round to look at the snug today and block up the hole which flooded it in the summer.

A minor panic ensued as the space was in no fit state for grown-up eyes, having been used as a dumping ground for many months. Turtle and I were forced to bring forward plans to clear out a mountain of junk, bedding, many cups and glasses, clip-on umbrellas, golf balls, rucksacks, tinsel, bikinis, magnets, hammers, lamps, broken vases, empty red wine bottles, wrapping paper, rotted clothes (from the flood – gross), gold balloons, hats, candles, army hats, fur coats, feather fans, used tea-bags etcetera, etcetera. The flotsam and jetsam of life in the House of Rats, thrown in there and the door firmly shut.

Not quite the relaxing day we had planned as I dropped a sofa on my leg and it was fucking hard graft for a hungover Sunday, but ah well, at least it’s done now and we once again have a habitable space down there. I have plans to decorate and make it as cosy as can be before decom, when it will be overrun by blinky people with wide smiles and filled with the sound of companiable mockery.