the adlards

I’ve blown a circuit overnight with the somewhat disturbing result that every third word of my internal monologue is sleep.

This would have been “Does not compute” except that Thameslink advertised my usual 4-coach train as an 8-coacher causing about three hundred sad individuals who usually take the slighlty earlier semi-fast train to leave that one empty and wait for mine, which arrived – as it does every day – comprised of four coaches with standing room only.

It was briefly entertaining as furious small-minded sods berated powerless station staff as they gradually realised that what had promised to be a 90 second saving in their commuting time had become a fifteen minute delay. Mostly just annoying though and I’m running very late.

sleep

I should point out, after last night’s documentary, that our agent isn’t yet lying, cheating, or stealing. Not that that makes me any happier just at the minute.

Detail of last night’s BBC exposé is on the BBC website, or if an injunction’s already been served, there’s a copy here. And all over the blogosphere …

The chasm that through nineteen or twenty house moves has persisted in my mind between Estate Agents and the sort of used-car salesperson who invests heavily in degreaser and black shoe polish is closing rapidly.

Our selected agent – who is head and shoulders clear of the competition in approach and attitude – has thus far failed to deliver on every single undertaking he has made. Maybe they’re just slow starters. Maybe there’s some more interesting negotiation still to come. That will be fun but it would be so much easier if he’d just do his job.

This project is amber – delivery agent requires capable process engineer.

The crocuses have croaked, the daffodils are up but not quite open, the enormous-yellow-flower-bush out front is about to burst into bloom, so why is it still so flippin’ cold?

I enjoy a little crisp weather as much as anyone, but this is wearing a bit thin. Come on Spring!

It happens frequently at weekends that, while out and about, I’ll need to take Josie to use the local facilities. This weekend was no exception.

After a week of intermittent snow it was a beautiful weekend and we spent the latter part of Sunday afternoon in the park. Having fed grain to the ducks and pigeons and tired ourselves out a little on the climbing frames it was time to hit the gents in the tea room.

Now at this stage Josie is no stranger to urinals (and knows they’re not for touching) but these ones had little green blocks in them. “Dad, what’s that?” [peering over the edge staring intently and pointing]
“That’s a little thing to try to make the urinal smell better Jo.” Men start hurriedly leaving.

We find a vacant stall and, inevitably, Josie going brings on the need for me to follow suit. But am I able to take a quiet pee in the stall? Oh no. With flies down, the door is flung open behind me:
“No Daddy, you have to go there!” gesturing at the row of urinals.

She proceeds to pick out the one for me – the one with the best viewing angle of course – stands next to it shoulder to the wall and right temple to my left hip, peering in, and at the critical moment yells “Daddy, is wee going to come out?”
“Yes, darling, give it a minute,” as a gentleman emerges from the stall we’ve just vacated: “Excuse me, are these your gloves, you left them …”

One of the great things about raising kids is the complete absence of the mundane.

Well, it’s happened at last. For a year-and-a-bit I’ve carried a napkin from The Carolina Inn in the pocket of my winter coat. It reminds me, when I’m commuting on an overcrowded, overheated train, of crisp January cold in NC and of Starbucks on the main street in Raleigh and of my brother Ben and of Anna who’s wonderful and who married him there in the week I picked up the napkin.

This morning on the train – having walked through falling snow for seven minutes mind – I found myself in need and without a tissue, so blew my nose on said napkin. Yes I know I could (perhaps should) have sacrificed my tie instead but I have some big meetings today and the napkin might dry out. I suspect, though, that from now on putting my hand in the pocket of my winter coat will remind me simply that I need to have it cleaned.

Ben and Anna you guys need to come visit.
Bring tokens …

Yesterday while an agent was valuing the house Josie took Sophie’s donut sitting-ring thing, placed it upside down over Sophie on the floor and proceeded to bounce on the underside like a trampoline.

1st law of house-selling: train your kids to charm the valuing agents.

Fortunately Josie is built like me and did no harm.

… that no matter how muc.h muck is under your fingernails, as soon as you’ve washed your hair they’re clean?

The lady sitting opposite me on the train tonight has her phone set up so that each key she hits emits a different xylophonic note.

When I boarded she was with a companion or I might have been forewarned, but no sooner had we left the next station (at which he alighted) than she settled her glasses on the end of her nose and began carefully to compose a text message at a pace a one-fingered typist would have laughed at. Bing. Bong. Plonk. Bongbongbong …

She’s still at it two stations on and, what’s more, because she has her back to most of the carriage the people turning around to look think it’s me. No doubt playing an archane 80’s game remade for mobile.

It is so much easier to bear intrusive noise on the train when blogging about it.

There she’s finished. I’m sure I heard lots of deletes. Either that or lots of elipsis I guess. No matter, it’s over now. You have a good evening. I’ll be hanging mirrors, painting and taking up carpet.

Turns out it takes quite a lot of work to get a house ready to go on the market. We should perhaps have allowed ourselves more than just one weekend. Still, in for a penny …

We’ve had fun this weekend. Not a lot of sleep (although Soph went through last night), but it’s great to work together so intensively.

The first agent visits today. Tomorrow the carpeters come in and another two agents visit and then we’re on the market.

Who’d’ve thought that a weekend of French polishing and hanging chandeliers could leave me aching like this on a Monday morning.