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Call Me Dent, Arthur Dent
Jul. 8th, 2010 07:26 pmMuch like certain Englishmen in bathrobes, I don't believe I've quite gotten the hang of Thursdays.
My phone battery died in the middle of the night, and in my incoherent fumbling with it at six in the ack emma I managed to plug the phone into the charger and unplug the charger from the wall. So my alarm did not go off this morning. My aunt woke me up an hour after it should have gone off when she came to pick me up to go to my grandma's. When I went in the bathroom to wash up, we didn't have any running water. AGAIN. This time it was not a water main, just the latest in a long series of arguments we've gotten in with the water company because we are too far off the road for them to believe we actually exist. So that was fun.
At my grandma's, I got yelled at several times for my inability to accurately measure cupboards or cut a straight line across a piece of shelf paper and had to deal with my grandpa, who is grumpy because he cut his arms up in a fall earlier in the week (he's fine, just very bandaged). Over the course of three hours, I injured myself on the following: kitchen counter (back of my head, three times while I was cleaning cabinets), dining room table (shoulder), brick fireplace (gouged a stripe out of my leg), laundry room doorjamb (elbow, and just barely stopped myself from swearing loudly in front of Tiny Cousin).
I had vaguely ambitious plans for this evening (like, oh, cooking dinner or making icons or working on one of the half-dozen things I desperately ought to be writing), but they have been relegated to the weekend in favor of reading about footballers and watching Jeeves and Wooster episodes. I'm really loving this show - it's like the mental equivalent of those candies you put in drinks to make them all fizzy. I don't know how I can possibly stay in a bad mood when Bertie Wooster is wearing a waistcoat and getting into hijinks in the English countryside.
My phone battery died in the middle of the night, and in my incoherent fumbling with it at six in the ack emma I managed to plug the phone into the charger and unplug the charger from the wall. So my alarm did not go off this morning. My aunt woke me up an hour after it should have gone off when she came to pick me up to go to my grandma's. When I went in the bathroom to wash up, we didn't have any running water. AGAIN. This time it was not a water main, just the latest in a long series of arguments we've gotten in with the water company because we are too far off the road for them to believe we actually exist. So that was fun.
At my grandma's, I got yelled at several times for my inability to accurately measure cupboards or cut a straight line across a piece of shelf paper and had to deal with my grandpa, who is grumpy because he cut his arms up in a fall earlier in the week (he's fine, just very bandaged). Over the course of three hours, I injured myself on the following: kitchen counter (back of my head, three times while I was cleaning cabinets), dining room table (shoulder), brick fireplace (gouged a stripe out of my leg), laundry room doorjamb (elbow, and just barely stopped myself from swearing loudly in front of Tiny Cousin).
I had vaguely ambitious plans for this evening (like, oh, cooking dinner or making icons or working on one of the half-dozen things I desperately ought to be writing), but they have been relegated to the weekend in favor of reading about footballers and watching Jeeves and Wooster episodes. I'm really loving this show - it's like the mental equivalent of those candies you put in drinks to make them all fizzy. I don't know how I can possibly stay in a bad mood when Bertie Wooster is wearing a waistcoat and getting into hijinks in the English countryside.