This morning we were back to what I regard as typical August weather, with half a gale and heavy showers as the remains of Hurricane Bertha barrelled through. This summer's heat wave, with day after day of bright sunshine and moderate wind has seemed aberrant, after getting used to the previous run of summers where one low pressure system after another tracked across the British Isles. Today was like being time warped back to our last few sailing holidays, sitting storm bound in a marina listening to the wind shriek through a hundred and fifty sets of rigging, checking the shipping forecast at lunchtime to find out that it wasn't due to calm down until Tuesday, and taking a short walk to look at the nasty mass of tumbling grey and white water out at sea, before the next rain band sent us scuttling back to our bunks and a fresh packet of biscuits.
It is better from that point of view not being on a boat, being able to make tea with an electric kettle instead of having to fire up a primus stove and having full run of our very extensive book and music collections, not to mention being able to stand upright freely and not just under the hatch cover. It was quite romantic lying in my bunk with a pile of Terry Pratchetts and a whole packet of custard creams, but the house is more comfortable. I got quite a lot done.
I made another honey cake, putting sultanas in it this time, then having doubts the moment I did so that the mixture was too runny and they were all going to sink. The top had caught even after fifty minutes, so to hide the mess where I'd shaved the burnt bits off I spread a thin coat of glace icing, flavoured with honey, and decorated it with pecan nuts left over from the disappointing ice cream recipe. When we cut a slice later on we found the fruit hadn't sunk, and I'm beginning to feel quite inventive about this honey flavoured batter of a cake mixture as a carrier for all sorts of additions. Chopped nuts? A diced apple?
I did my ironing too, catching the growing heap on the spare bed just before the point at which it became oppressive. As domestic chores go I don't mind ironing. It doesn't make too much noise, so you can listen to music while doing it, and you can see when it's done. You start with a pile of rumpled cloth and end up with neat piles of folded clothes and napkins which you can put away. The pile has gone, the spare bed is a satisfying blank, the clean shirts and t-shirts and dresses will be there when you need them, instead of that sinking feeling when it's almost time to go out that the thing you thought you were going to wear is in the wash. It is quite satisfying. Today's heap took all of an Erik Satie CD, and half of a Fado recording that the Systems Administrator finds boring so I only listen to it when doing housework, alone. The Gnossiennes make very good music for ironing (and a really excellent accompaniment to rose pruning. Slow and wistful, they just suit cutting things off, though they really make me feel they should be the soundtrack of a classic Cold War thriller, something by le Carre where the anti-hero dies at the end).
I cleaned the cloakroom and ensuite bathroom as well, which is far less satisfying. I don't know what's in our water to make it hard, given that we are not in chalk and limestone country, but it leaves copious mineral deposits around the taps, on the plughole fittings, anywhere that water lies, and especially on the glass shower screen. I wipe and scrub and spray with limescale remover and leave for the recommended time and scrub again, but the mineral layers never come off like they do in the advertisements on TV. And there is always fluff. Every time I think I've wiped everything and that must be all the fluff, another piece appears from somewhere, or a stray wisp of hair. Not even Trevor Pinnock's version of The Goldberg Variations could make cleaning the bathroom fun.
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