Resolutions are pointless because they always falter by February so I resolved to make none. Luckily Mr Smith made mine for me. I was dreading the usual be less fat, more tidy, less idle, more energetic, less chaotic, more organised. Yes, there is room, just a teeny chink, for improvement. You can add be nicer, less extravagant, less angry, less indolent, less rude, less ugly and less drunk but he simply went for read more Dickens with particular emphasis on Bleak House, which is a great story but a mighty tome. I got as far as the introduction of the four thousandth character before putting it down and now I've forgotten where I was as Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags on and Mr Turveydrop becomes more tiresome.
Today's goodly task, for I plan one a day in my strive for perfection, is to dig over the vegetable garden. It is looking a bit of a sight as I still have the bean poles up. This is because until last week they were covered in flowering nasturtiums but then frosty wind made moan and they eventually died. I suggested Mr Smith did this but he thought not, with some charming endearment such as "Go poke it"; so I will, with a fork.
Oh so exciting, tomorrow Mr Smith starts his new job. I say job but regard this loosely if you will. He is putting on his suit and going to town to sit at a desk and no longer be here every minute of the day monitoring me and my inertia. I think he'll find commuting somewhat ghastly; he hasn't done it for years. He may prefer a late start after walking the dog, cleaning the kitchen and making my breakfast. I do hope so.
No comments:
Post a Comment