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| Dog's enthusiasm for housework is infectious. |
We open the door, drop our jaw. A curtain of rain hides the world.
We must swap the faux suede for rubber boots: me, my hands, my feet, for reasons as yet unfathomed I feel like a collective today.
A theory promptly appears that it may be the result of an uncharacteristic cleaning spree. It is unfamiliar work and yet hands, feet, brain all pull together. A combination of the unknown and the known makes one reappraise how a being is collected together, perhaps. Like an identity crisis only pleasant.
Hands, feet and brain have done well, although the discovery of damp in the living room corner is a vexment. Contrariness over not using the word vexation is a distraction technique. The landlord’s phone is answered by a voice saying service unavailable, try again later. Further distractions involve looking for the culprit who put bird poo on the mantelpiece (Mr suggests it might be bat in origin) and venturing out to borrow a vacuum cleaner. In this: this sheer face of precipitation.
On with the rubber boots, with running to the car.
We picked a coat with no hood!
From tangled hair the rain washes out dust and several long dead spiders. They are the colour of wet dust.
Now, for no particular reason, we are wondering what the future holds and thinking how lovely the house is, cleaned up.
A theory promptly appears that it may be the result of an uncharacteristic cleaning spree. It is unfamiliar work and yet hands, feet, brain all pull together. A combination of the unknown and the known makes one reappraise how a being is collected together, perhaps. Like an identity crisis only pleasant.
Hands, feet and brain have done well, although the discovery of damp in the living room corner is a vexment. Contrariness over not using the word vexation is a distraction technique. The landlord’s phone is answered by a voice saying service unavailable, try again later. Further distractions involve looking for the culprit who put bird poo on the mantelpiece (Mr suggests it might be bat in origin) and venturing out to borrow a vacuum cleaner. In this: this sheer face of precipitation.
On with the rubber boots, with running to the car.
We picked a coat with no hood!
From tangled hair the rain washes out dust and several long dead spiders. They are the colour of wet dust.
Now, for no particular reason, we are wondering what the future holds and thinking how lovely the house is, cleaned up.
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| Dog looks approvingly at what the rain has achieved. |
Comments
And my tuning fork goes off at the idea of a pleasant crisis. Shake, mighty trees! Shake with terrible pleasure!
Further cleaning has turned up a feather, so the bat theory is overturned.
The pleasant crisis is a recurrent thought- joy can throw us off kilter just as sorrow can- but to be joyful is preferable!
Much love to you both, lovely people xx