My dear husband Benedict Ambrose has gone to a stag weekend in England, leaving me alone and palely loitering. Well, that's not quite true. I mean, I am alone and pale, but I'm not loitering. I have done exactly what I do on Saturday mornings, which is:
1. Wake up at seven.
2. Make coffee.
Three. Check the internet.
4. Study Polish for an hour.
5. Make Polish flashcards until 10 (or some minutes past 10).
6. Wash any dirty dishes.
7. Scrub the kitchen.
8. Take out the trash.
The recycling will have to wait until B.A. returns, for I don't have the necessary keys to the various doors and sheds Historical Household recycling necessitates.
The thing about being happily married is that if your husband goes away for the weekend, there is no sense of "when the cat's away." There are very few things I would do in B.A.'s absence that I wouldn't do in his presence. They are
A) eating delicious, tangy vinegar-
B) sprinkled fish and chips with my fingers
C) while sitting in his chair
D) watching Polish movies.
Unfortunately, we haven't got a DVD player (long story), so instead of watching Polish movies I watched "Jamie's 15 Minute Suppers" while I gobbled my vinegar-dressed fish and chips, and then hit the mute button and surfed the internet until 8:45, when my mother called. Then at 9:00 the new episode of "Lewis" came on, so I put the sound on again. (They've made "Hathaway" ill-tempered; what's with that? If the reprobates who write "Lewis" make him lose his faith, I will stop watching. Incidentally, can you imagine any other era in which such a straight arrow as Lewis would live in sin with a lady doctor? Oh, for the next episode of "Endeavour", that I may be edified by handsome DCI Thursday.)
Then shortly after 10 I brushed my teeth and went to bed with "Fluent Forever" and soon fell asleep. Such is my exciting, exciting life.
I should probably explain that my husband hates vinegar so much, he can't stand the smell or sight of it or anything that contains it, like ketchup or tartar sauce. He is also disturbed when I dispense with ye olde forke and just stuff food in my face like a squirrel. I never do this at a proper dinner table, mind you, but eating in front of the television is so utterly barbaric, anyway, I can't see why sins against cutlery make a difference.
Fortunately for my nervous disposition, the Historical House has not one but two security systems. However, they are much not good against the THING on the second floor. B.A. doesn't believe in the THING on the second floor, probably because I can never sense it when he is at home. The THING sort of oozes its way into my consciousness on nights when he is out very late drinking with the boys, and whether or not it exists, it scares the heck out of me, lurking away just below the staircase. So last night I avoided that end of the flat and shut the hall doors and felt perfectly fine. Slept like a baby.
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