Bank holiday Monday should have been a little oasis of tranquillity before Nigel returned to work on Tuesday, Carenza departed on her French language trip and I got ready to go visit my parents in Cornwall.
Perran and Carenza are both suffering from a cold, and all three offspring from revision (which I fear will go on much longer than a cold). We did manage a shortish country walk all together. When we got back, I made a ratatouille, intending a pleasant family dinner later.
But as it happened, that was my last appearance in the kitchen for several hours.
Last time Carenza had a party, I had noticed afterwards that the beanbags had been dribbling polystyrene beads. By lucky chance, I also noticed that Wilkinson’s was selling top-up packs of polystyrene beads. Topping up the beanbags seemed like a nice quiet Bank Holiday job to do.
I am now older and wiser and my considered advice is NEVER TOP UP BEANBAGS. If your beanbag is limp, wave it good-bye and replace it, or even better, just wave it goodbye.
The idea with beanbags is that there is an insidey bit which holds the polystyrene and a durable outer cover. When I unzipped the outer covers, I discovered that the inside liners had split.
Just as the snow was disappearing from the garden, it reappeared in my sitting room. But this was electrically charged snow which loved me very much. Rather like a plague victim, I couldn’t leave the room for fear of spreading the contamination. I had to fight it alone with just a vacuum cleaner. Every so often a family member would peer in, ask me if I was alright, if I needed help.
“I’ll be all right – just go now and save yourself.”
As the door shut, I would get a delicious waft of ratatouille. I couldn’t even drink the tea they brought me because tiny white balls leapt into it as soon as it arrived.
Finally, Nigel came in and found me trying to hoover my own back and rescued me. By nine thirty, we were all watching telly together, determinedly ignoring the fact that our sitting room appears to have developed dandruff.