Remembering what I forgot...

Oh, stupid me! Oh, stupid me, who got home from work on Friday evening and developed a full blown cold in the space of two hours. I have suddenly remembered something that I should never have forgotten, but I did, and it was stupid to forget and now I have remembered and I feel so much better, even though my throat is red-raw sore and my nose is stuffy- dribbly-sniffy, and my ears are poppy-crackley-whistley.

'What?' I hear you say. 'What is it that you have remembered that you forgot that you shouldn't have forgotten but it's okay now because you have remembered, and we forgive you because we all have our stupid moments in life?' (Well done for keeping up so far - very impressive for a Sunday morning!)

Well, I'll tell you what it is I have remembered. I have remembered that I am not a teacher, I am a writer. And I have also remembered what it was I want from life. And that is (in no particular order):

The peace and quiet of a view of the countryside
Writing
Andy
Good health
Sewing
Hens
A vegetable garden
Flowers
Cats
A log fire
A stable door
A terrier-dog of some sort called Colonel Bunty

That's all. And I forgot.

And how did I remember? I remembered this morning whilst performing my annual murder attempt on the buddleia in the garden. We do battle every year, me and that damned shrub, and every year it comes back a good foot taller and three feet wider and it laughs in triumph because I am a feeble human with some dodgy secateurs and it is THE MIGHTY BUDDLEIA who will triumph over the Universe (well, the garden at MMM)....mwhahahahahahahahaha! (Although I have to say that the lemon balm has given it a darn good run for its money in the global garden domination stakes this year. Still beating that back with a shovel.)

And I miss the allotment, and I miss the hens, and I miss properly growing stuff. And I miss writing because all I do is mark effing exercise books in my evenings or write stupid lesson plans that I never look at anyway just because I am not trusted to be a professional.

And it's all the fault of HORRID SCHOOL which is no longer satisfied with stealing all my waking hours (and a lot of my sleeping hours too) but wants to sabotage my health and sanity and turn me into some gibbering wreck.

('Denise!')
('What?')
('Stand back from the Drama Queen IMMEDIATELY!')
('But I like it! Look, I'm flouncing!')
('I said stoppit! NOW!')
('You are such a spoilsport - whoever you are.')
('Whatever. Get on with the blog.')

Anyway, we've had 5 house viewings this week. Three yesterday, one Friday, and one Wednesday. Two from yesterday seemed like a waste of time and I don't think we'll hear any more from them, and one was a possibly-interested; the only thing that annoyed me was that they were an Italian couple and they kept talking to each other in Italian which, as you know, I think is very rude. And given that my Italian is limited to 'lumaca' (snail) and 'klacson' (car horn) I didn't get much of a gist of what they were discussing.

The Friday appointment was for 6 p.m, having been changed at the last minute from Saturday 4.30. I got in from work at 5.10 to a ringing phone, agreed to the change in time, and spent half a crazy hour tidying up. He then didn't arrive until 7.30. SEVEN THIRTY!! I was well hacked off with him. Plus he was looking to buy somewhere for his daughter, plus he didn't seemed that interested, plus he said, 'Sorry I'm late; tell me to go away if you want to,' and I very nearly did.

The best couple were the Wednesday couple. They love the house. They stayed nearly an hour. They told us their complete life story. They are going to put in an offer...

...as soon as they have sold their house...

....ah well. We carry on.