It's Monday. The beginning of a new week. I am quite aware that some will argue that Sunday actually holds that distinction, due to its prominence as the supposed rest and worship day before the onslaught of work begins once more. For us, Sunday involves the Five Stages of Grief as we struggle with the ongoing saga of Getting Out Of Bed, followed by our usual Dagwood Dash for the East End Gallery in order to open the doors relatively on time. Thank goodness, Mister Beasley the postman doesn't do his rounds on Sunday.
Monday has taken on the role of a Slob Day. If we are not expecting visitors, Monday also immediately takes the moniker of being a Bra Free Zone. As we are looking forward to meeting our eighty-third (!) artist this afternoon, I have bowed to the inevitable and hitched the boobs into their supporting slings.
There is also the mountain of washing that has stacked up over the previous five days. This is in addition to the piles of sheets and towels that have to be laundered as well. This week, we also had the unfortunate circumstance of Madame Cat taking a great dislike to her worming tablet and spewing a month's worth of her stomach contents over the quilt cover. Which seeped through to the quilt. Of course.
A particularly annoying loss of dexterity is my inability to get food from my fork to my mouth without incident. This difficulty increases in magnitude depending on the colour of my shirt or frock. Wearing white is the unconscious signal for my coordination to falter accordingly. Hence, the splodge will be extensive on pale items, whilst although noticeable, may be cunningly concealed on a patterned or bright piece of clothing.
Anyway, I've digressed. As soon as I finish my latest ramblings, I shall begin my Monday endeavours. The cat has already had her blood pressure medication poked down her gullet. Pip has had my fingers as far back in his crocodile Jack Russell mouth as I am able, given his propensity for seeking out his anti-histamine in last night's dinner. This morning, he was unsuccessful in spitting out the hated tablet. We are still waiting with bated breath for the arrival of his pheromone collar, which hopefully will cut down on his interior piddling. Unexpectedly standing in a puddle of pee is only humorous the first time...
The dishwasher is on. Yesterday's washing has had another wash. The precipitous peak of dirty clothes will be tackled shortly. I am ashamed to admit I actually get a thrill from peering into an empty washing basket. The floors will then be vacuumed and washed. Another blast of excitement will erupt once that task is completed. I am even contemplating the ironing stack. Thank God for Masterchef tonight on the telly.
Michael has not been idle either. The daily Poop Patrol has been ticked off. The courtyards are having a well-earned soaking due to a distinct absence of autumnal rain. We are both actually enjoying the mundane series of events.
Ye Gods...
And on Mondays, we be slobs!
Failure to Launch is a serious condition...
Our usual exit style on East End Gallery days...
Oh, the joys of a Bra Free Zone!
Slob Day hairstyle...
A common distraction...
However, time to attack the vacuuming!
All is well at Station House.
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