I am sitting up in my bed nursing a mug of coffee and bewailing (with the emphasis on the word “wail”) the fact that so much seems to be going wrong in my household leading to me feeling positively beleaguered.
The Youngest of the Darling Daughters who is sitting in bed with me, also nursing a mug of coffee, sympathises with me but reminds me that this is why she is here. Not necessarily
why she is here in my bed, you understand (though regular readers may remember that this has become an Early Morning Custom, ever since my Little Sister jumped into bed with me on her first morning in charge of my recovery, all those seven weeks ago) but certainly
why she has come to visit.
What is more, she points out, we have already sorted at least one of my Domestic Problems in that the dishwasher is now doing what it
does best. As in, washing dishes. Mind you, the two fellas who repaired the machine for me, told a different story. There were, they explained, four things that a dishwasher did. In short any dishwasher worth its salt (quite literally) had to (i) fill; (ii)
heat; (iii) stir; and (iv) drain. Clearly I have widely underestimated the aptitudes of the humble dishwasher.
Incidentally, the mechanics reminded me of
the Chuckle Brothers in their prime - the Youngest of the Darling Daughters came out into the kitchen to tell me that it wasn’t strictly necessary for me to sit and watch them at work but, really, it was Quite A Performance and I didn’t want to
miss a minute of it. Bless them, not only did they sort out the dishwasher (the fault was with the flow meter. No, me neither) but they also reset the timer on my cooker so that I can now turn it on without first fiddling with the timer buttons. Nor will it
start beeping in the night anymore, leading Mr B to yell upstairs and wake me from my slumbers. So, really, that was two problems solved. I am starting to feel better already.
Over the course of the day more problems are sorted. My friend Tan manages to get the loo flushing while the obliging electrician who fitted my LED light bulbs in our living room before Christmas comes back to fit different dimmer switches which will
stop them flickering and refuses to charge me any more money for his second visit. Meanwhile the Youngest of the Darling Daughters sets to with a will to sort out my Storage Issues with a view to decluttering my life. “My house is just as bad!”
she keeps assuring me, loyally, just in case I start imagining I am the world’s worst hoarder. She fills her car with bags of clothes to take to the charity shop and stacks of cardboard for recycling. She is zealous in her efforts on my behalf.
We do find time before she cooks dinner for Mr B, herself and me, to take a walk in the chilly sunshine along the coastal path to the Bluebird Café where we drink
skinny decaffeinated lattes and share a delicious flapjack. Sharing is caring, don’t you know, and Caring is my daughter’s middle name. Well, it’s Elizabeth actually, but I’m sure you know what I mean.
Over our coffee, I worry that visits to her father and me are nowhere near so much, well, fun these days. Sorting out wardrobes, fixing problems with Domestic Appliances, driving to the charity shop,
listening to my woes - well, it hasn’t been a Laugh A Minute, has it?
My daughter isn’t having any of it. Of course we have fun, she assures me, stoutly
- it’s always good to spend time together, the fun just evolves over time, as, indeed, it should (she says.) She is already thinking, I feel sure, of the fun we are going to have next time she comes, measuring up for new curtain poles in my bedroom and
driving to Dunelm (other stores may well also sell perfectly acceptable fixtures and fittings) to buy them.
She is right, of course. When I look back on
these two days, I will remember just one thing.
We did have SUCH fun!