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.
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