One of those days ...

I got up with great enthusiasm this morning ready to tackle my short To Do List. I say short, and it was but it comprised time consuming things.

 

Ironing for example. Which is one of those things that could be taken to mean, get to the bottom of the basket, and might be something I do regularly on a Monday. It's not. It's not regularly on a Monday and getting to the bottom of the basket isn't a regular feature of my ironing life either. And some days it could equally mean that I'l be satisfied if I clear a duvet cover from the pile.

 

Another one on the list was Walk. Again this could be to the bottom of the drive and back (further than you might think, but hardly a challenging distance ) or it could be to the end of the island and back (ha, ha)

 

And of course the Daddy of them all was Work. The idea was that the other stuff would get whipped through and most of the day would be spent hunched over a hot computer while I added swathes to the Great Work. I would then rise, satisfied with my progress at 5.00 pm and tick off 'Work' from my list with a feeling of  a job well done.

 

It didn't happen like that. People came, some to the door, some rather further. Time went. It became too cold and too dark to go out for a walk. Inspiration eluded me. No, let's be honest, the ability to put together a coherent sentence about George's poetry eluded me. I couldn't quite summon up the enthusiasm to seek out and print a copy of Gerard Manley Hopkins' The Windhover, which I wanted for comparison purposes. This was largely because I do not like, and have never liked, the poetry of G. M. Hopkins because, and, regular readers, laugh all you like at this, I have considered him as someone who wrote to show off how clever he was ever since I was first forced to consume The Windhover in a 'Poetry Lesson' at Junior School. However I feel there may be points of comparison with George's poem Solan, so I really have to look at it.

 

In the middle of talking to the people who came rather further than the door Son no 2 Skyped from Glasgow  to say that the men who had delivered his new washing machine and were supposed to install it having first un-installed the old broken one could not in fact do so, because the old one, rather than having a plug to go into a socket, was in fact directly wired in, and the men who had been sent were not sufficiently qualified to deal with this. We now have to wait until John Lewis Glasgow has a man available  with the correct qualifications to Deal with Wires. Which is all very well but Son No 2 needs to do some washing. He has been without a machine for the best part of two weeks already. Push comes to shove he will have to go to the Launderette, which I know won't kill him but is a hassle.

 

Then I foolishly managed to accidentally sign out of Google when I came to try and write a (totally different) blog post. Naturally enough I could not remember my password, despite giving a go to all the variations I could think of on the basic ones  I normally use. Eventually Google got sick of me trying to remember it and asked me to re-interpret in normal type several sets of hieroglyphics. I know these are used to defeat robot users, but the sad fact is they regularly defeat me too, and in the end the goblin in the machine allowed me to press a Help button and sent me a reauthorisation code ....

 

It was all of a piece with the rest of the largely non-constructive day. Still as Victoria-from-the-Shop said as I gave her some money and fell off the chocolate wagon, 'There's always tomorrow. Try-Again-Tuesday.'

 

So there you go. Try Again Tuesday it is. Or will be, tomorrow.