Weeknotes 017: There she is
Secret Santa got Irish coffee for The Chef and it’s been hanging around the kitchen since. Generally it’s too early for alcohol before midday. And afterwards, late for caffeine. I guess what I’m trying to say is, 9 am Baileys for the win.
The warming jacket of booze is sufficient that I’m writing these in the garden on a cold, but sunny, January day while everyone else naps.
(Yes that is a dusting of snow on the ground)
Yesterday, Grandad came round to fix the roof. Having cut through the floorboards, found the source and put everything back by 11 am, he popped home to get extra stuff. Shortly after lunch he nipped out of the velux, lashed a tow row over the chimney and started amiably sliding down the roof with flashing tape and tar. He at least consented to using my climbing harness, rather than tying the rope around his foot. We’ve to wait to for the next downpour to see if he was successful, but it was impressive either way.
The Chef has had this week off. Excuse enough for Monday night takeaway. Social media’s fault for letting us know about the discount.
Piglet watched us shovel fried cheese balls into our face with disgust. She carried that feeling into the bath. When her face turned purple—a sure sign of impending mess—we whisked her out and plopped her on her potty. She had no choice but to use it as intended. She was not happy about the experience. Still counts though.
Coupled with her big girl bed at Lǎolao and Lǎoyé’s, and her correct use of the progressive verb tense she’s really got a grip on the whole “they grow up fast” thing. The Chef even got to have a smug mum moment in the park as the other parents cooed over her precociousness. Right before she made a little boy cry in a reverse Georgie Porgie situation.
She continues to over-enjoy her squirty bath toys.
The distraction of Piglet and the Chef being around on Monday meant I had a definite dip in productivity at work. Pleasingly, the whole to-do list thing I’m sticking with restricted it to one day. It can’t last.
I’ve been sneaking Turing Tumble into the evenings. The promo video has lots of children playing with it and one massive nerd. And I’m no longer a child.
Eventually got round to listening to the case of the missing hit. It’s good, whilst being a textbook example of well-produced “podcast voice”. This “investigation” in to the great bucatini shortage is the analogue in print. Fun, but/and McSweeney’s escaped to the wild.
The last bit of tape from the Christmas decorations came down today.
“There she is!”