Cleansing rain

Mr Smith has gone away to play golf in Kent. In fact he's been gone for four days and I've only just noticed. Oooh eck, he's coming back today. Look spritely Mr Dyson and you Miss Pledge; we have work to do. I stripped the bed and hung the duvet out of the window. It then rained. Not any old rain but huge Noah rain. I forgot about the duvet. How the fuck am I going to get the sodden thing dry before Mr Smith returns? How can feather down be so heavy when wet? What do birds do - tumble dry themselves? Flight would be completely out of the question. Oh less pondering, more housework. I hadn't realised quite what a mess we'd got into whilst the Senior Darleck was away. Maybe I will just finish my extremely trashy vampire book (Twilight - fabulously escapist, I have the whole trilogy) and the crossword and he can exterminate me upon his return.

Terrible tragic news. (Apart from leaving my camera out in the rain so it will never work again.) I sneaked up to Bond Street whilst Mr Smith was chasing his little golf balls around the Kent coast to buy my new handbag and meet Designer Susan, to whom I was going to show off unashamedly. Her train was cancelled and my handbag was OUT OF STOCK. I nearly cried. I went to Harvey Nicholls to console myself and looked at all the stupid mothers trying to dress like their daughters. I can be smug here because I don't have daughters; I just dress like a 13 year old because I've never grown up. Actually, 50 is tricky because you don't want to look like your mother but there again you don't want to look a sad hippy, an aged rock chic, mutton or really frumpy. I opted for a plain red linen dress with short cream jacket (the frumpy/ mother look) ... of course. Maybe I'll get my handbag on line and a new camera.