Monday March 10, 2008
I got over my attack of the wearies by the early evening yesterday and started driving Graham crazy as I bounced off the walls trying to find something I wanted to do. You don’t have to go far in this house to find a wall suitable for the purposes of bouncing.
“You’re making a mess,” Graham said, sitting in the middle of the living room surrounded by bits of record deck.
“You’re a fine one to talk.”
“Well, alright, but this is mess with a purpose. You’re doing the mess without a purpose thing.”
I closed the book I’d not been reading and plomped it on top of the pile of other books I’d attempted and failed. With a condemnatory sneer it slid off onto the floor, taking the whole pile with it. Somehow that seemed to underline my lack of purpose.
So I tidied my books away, Graham took himself off to fix good strong espresso, and we settled down to watch the day’s episode of Buffy. The one that sees the end of The Initiative and the beginning of the end of Riley. Can’t say I shall miss either of them. Nor Adam. Never could be doing with Adam.
“There. Is that better,” Graham asked as the closing credits Grrr! Arrg!-ed themselves into DVD silence.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine now. I shall go cook our dinner. Is there any booze left?”
“Drop of vodka.”
“Oh. Do you want half?”
“No. You finish it.”
“Ta. I shall be careful to give you the nicest-looking potatoes.”
“Good. Don’t make a mess.”
“What are these, then?” he asked a little while later, prodding his beautifully boiled Anya potatoes with his fork.
“Spuds. From Norfolk.”
“They look like maggots.”
He cut off one small segment and tasted it, gingerly. Five seconds later he’d scoffed the lot.
“What did you say they were called?”
“Clever clogs. Can I have another helping, please?”