When Mr Smith goes away I get the desire to clean up the house. Why I don't do this when he's here I am not quite sure. I think I love him coming home and seeing it all tidy and sparkling and there being some sort of renaissance in our lives. This unfortunately coincides with both boys being at home; they are not allowed any meals. I told the Best Boy, who seems to have a break from film making, that I did not wish to mess up my newly immaculated kitchen. "It's OK" he announced "I will mess it up for you". .... and the Apprentice will help.
I am so lazy these days I despair. It is hot and I am fat and exhausted. I just lie on the sofa between little bouts of painting yearning for autumn to arrive. I do not know where this malaise has come from but I really am so idle it is piteous. My garden rambles, my house smells, my boys hang around asking what's for the next meal and I don't care. I tried to hula hoop yesterday, unsuccessfully. I am no Grace Jones. Today I will swim and passe l'aspirateur. That's french for hoovering. I might polish too which I think is frotter, but that might be wanking.
My mother rang yesterday with a royal summons. "You must come and visit your father." But I have a sofa to lie on and endless programmes about people smuggling things into Australia to watch. "You can only come if he is able to see you; he might be out." Well, then I am not coming. I told her it was customary to invite someone to something as in "Would you like to come to tea tomorrow?". Then I will look in my diary and see if I'm free. Oh no sorry, it's Murder, She Wrote at 3.
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