The nesting instinct is alive and well in Chateau Jud. Today I vacuumed every room, ran four loads of laundry (the dryer arrives tomorrow, but it was great laundry hangin’ weather today: sunny and springlike), cleared out the pantry, made a vat of chicken soup and a mini-vat of tomato sauce, brushed the cats, descaled the washing machine, and steam cleaned the ovens and kitchen cabinets. I also steamed the pots and pans. It’s amazing: no matter how much boiling water and soap and steel wool I use on a nightly basis, I inevitably blast off a thick white scum of fat when steaming the cookware.
At any rate, the upper levels of the kitchen now gleam (bending and squatting hurt). About an hour ago I was preparing to clear out the spice cabinet and steam that when Trev said, “You know, if you clean everything now, your Mum’s going to be bored when she gets here.”
Good point. I steam cleaned the cat door and called it a day.
As I mentioned, today’s weather was glorious. I’d been going stir crazy because of the snow, so I spent a lot of time outside. I walked to and from the grocery store (2 miles) and then around Cofton Park for an hour (3.2 miles). I unwisely walked through a muddy patch and sank up to mid-calf in sucking, stinking mire. This was early in the walk, so I pressed on, and eventually the stuff dried out, leaving me to stomp around grumbling like a pregnant peg-legged pirate. When I got home and cleaned up, I rubbed my aching feet, and left thumbprints on the flesh that stayed a long time. Looks like I am finally retaining fluid, big time.
I also grumbled at the amount of litter left behind now that the snow has melted. Normally our park is quite pristine, and you don’t see much in the way of trash around (although my sister-in-law tells me they did once find a headless body in Cofton Park– or a bodiless head; I forget). There is a problem with dog mess but that seems universal to Britain– they are not as fastidious about that as we are. I have had quite a few runs come to a sudden halt in this park when my foot slipped on some schnauzer’s deposit lurking in the taller grass off the cricket pitch– or when said schnauzer has leapt on me from behind. Sartre said “Hell is other people” but I would agree more with “Hell is other people’s dogs.”
Still, I cannot wait to take off this fat suit and go for a real run. Tick, tick, tick.
(P.S.: Mom, if I disinfect everything before you get here, there’s always the garden. I have plans.)