The last time we spoke, Mother Hen was reduced to a pile of bloody feathers and being systematically dismantled by Chaos.
You will be pleased to know that somehow I have managed to pry myself loose from her powerful jaws. All being well, I hope to return to something approaching normalcy in the near future.
Normalcy, however, is something of a relative concept. I feel fairly certain that mine would not in any way feel normal to you. But don’t feel bad. You do not want my current normal, which consists of a sticky kitchen floor that has not been swept for a week, three baskets full of unwashed clothing and ironing piled high in the corner of my dining room, dishes in the sink, rubbish and recycling bins overflowing since I missed the last 3 collection days, expensive hanging baskets wilting from lack of water (until today, that is…) and some sort of mystery odor pervading my living room. Could be a dead bird up the chimney, maybe the moldering remains of a rodent behind the plasterboard, a forgotten lump of French cheese, or quite possibly somebody’s super stinky sweat sock jammed in a crevice of the sofa, who knows?
All my nose knows is that the living room SMELLS, and that its source is at present indefinable, this in spite of having set up a perimeter, sprayed the carpet with luminol, swabbed for DNA and got my chalk ready to outline the corpse. It would seem I have all the circumstantial evidence for decomp, yet am still lacking a body to identify. The case, therefore, remains open, but I am keeping the body bag and toe-tag at the ready.
Strangely enough, I find myself living in sincere hope that it is an expired animal or abandoned cheese, as nobody’s feet should ever, EVER smell that bad. Unless, of course, those feet actually belonged to a human corpse. Which, given the green fog hovering in my living room, is always a distinct possibility… (*cue creepy laughter*)
Having weathered the happy insanity of our International Convention at Twickenham this past weekend, I am bracing myself for the last hurdle in this long series, a congregation party this afternoon. Today is a national bank holiday in Britain, and so we have decided to take advantage of the day off with friends. Even though it is bucketing it down rain, we are expecting a crowd of at least 40 to descend on our humble pile of bricks, and hubby has worked hard overnight smoking the brisket. I therefore blame him entirely for this latest blow to my previously successful diet*.
At this point, I can only hope my dear friends are not bothered by sticky floors and piles of washing. But then, I suppose the untidiness will go right along with the mystery death smell in the living room.
Given my penchant for procrastination and avoidance, I see only one possible solution to this toxic disarray: Its name is Karaoke. It doesn’t matter that the state of our house is almost entirely the fault of my Inner Whitney Houston, who had two gigs last week, a three-day convention to attend, and is a rotten housekeeper at the best of times. Rational Me is willing to hand her the mic for an hour or two while we sway to the music in Denialville, also known as my barn, freshly kitted out with my new band gear and PA system… For the children, of course.
The corpse will have to wait.
*There is the faintest possibility I have in some small way contributed to the demise of my diet plans by attending back to back hog roasts last week, followed by spending three days in a stadium seat popping peanut M&Ms like they were going out of style. But let’s not split hairs.
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