I was rather late to bed last night. Yesterday evening just
as I was about to go to kip I realized we had the heating on continuous because
littlun was staying. So that would have been an ideal opportunity to dry wet
washing. We didn’t actually have any wet washing so I put a load through the
machine and by the time I’d hung that over the radiators it was well past
midnight.
I woke before seven o’clock, and had the same idea again,
so I put another load in to wash, gathered up the dry, and went back to bed
where I lay wide awake for an hour before giving up trying to sleep and getting
up.
I made brekkie and had my usual root around the Internet to
see if I’d missed much. Last night was Burns Night and the world and his
wife were suddenly claiming to be fiercely proud of their Scottish heritage… a
heritage about which many keep very quiet for most of the year presumably
because they don’t have one.
I get rather annoyed about Scottish patriotism. Don’t get
me wrong, I’m not in any way being disrespectful to Scotland or the Scottish,
but what winds me up is those who live and work within a few miles of my house
who claim to be Scottish and to be proud of it. If Scotland is as brilliant as
these people (very occasionally) claim, why are they living as far away
from Scotland as it is possible to be whilst remaining on the same island?
Interestingly none of my actually Scottish friends had
anything to say about Burns Night.
The washing machine bleeped to tell me it had done its
worst at the laundry, so I hung that out, and I then cracked on re-writing
Wherigos for my Kings Wood project. After an hour I heard a sound. Bailey had
been asleep in her bed in the living room the whole time. Presumably more peace
and quiet there than up in the attic room with littlun.
As littlun wreaked havoc I heard a noise outside. Some chap
was putting out road cones outside. Apparently he was planning on fixing a pot
hole some time tomorrow and was rather angry that cars were parked in the
parking bay. He pointed out my car and said it shouldn’t be there because he’d
just put out a road cone. He claimed that his putting out a road cone
immediately made that place a no parking zone.
However when I told him that there was no cone there when
I’d parked the car on the previous day he changed his tune and said that he was
only putting cones out and they didn’t take effect until the following evening.
But he was adamant that it was within his power to declare anywhere he liked a
no parking zone.
I suggested that rather than going out on a Sunday morning
and trying to cordon off swathes of residential parking, he might be better
advised to have his office people put leaflets through the doors of local
residents to let them know of upcoming road works. This chap was adamant that
contacting locals was a waste of time as nobody takes any notice of such
notifications.
The chap clearly had the arse that he had to work on a
Sunday morning… I’ve written to my Kent County Councilor to suggest that if KCC
want my car moved, someone might pop a note through my letterbox rather than
letting me find out randomly from some irate workman… Mind you he didn’t reply
the last time I wrote to him.
Littlun continued to wreak havoc. In between wreaking she
was squealing me up to her grandmother for pretty much everything she thought
she might be able to blame me for. She then fed the cheese of her Dairylea
lunchable to Morgan and immediately told Nanny that Grandad had given her
dinner to the dogs.
“My Boy TM” and ”Auntie
Chel TM” came to visit, and she was as good as gold with
them.
The plan had been to take littlun and the dogs for a short
walk in Dymchurch before taking her home, but the rain was against that. So we
just took her home, and on our return had a cuppa. I then sparked up the
lap-top again and got busy with writing Wherigos
“er indoors TM” boiled up scran
which we scoffed whilst watching “Junior Bake Off” which was rather good,
and “The Traitors Uncloaked” which wasn’t. I’d rather hoped for better.
And in closing, today would have been my dad’s eighty-nineth
birthday.
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