The way to contentment is not gained by dwelling on the amount of time spent waiting for repairmen to deliver the dishwasher they have managed to keep out of operation for months.
But who wants to find contentment. Contentment (why not ‘content’?) equals stasis equals death. So I will dwell on the time that I have donned the Marigolds (metaphorically) and got down and clean by washing dishes using the old fashioned (and unhygienic) method of hot water, lemon washing up liquid and sheer exasperation.
It’s not really a question of which I prefer: washing or drying. I hate both. And the minimalist, white plastic curve which is supposed to be a draining rack which I had to buy (god how that rankles!) merely suggests stability for stacked dishes. A slight misreading of the topography of the sedimentary arrangement of plates and it all comes crashing down.
The delivery of our thrice futilely repaired machine is scheduled for the limited time slot of five hours from two in the afternoon to seven at night. Three of those hours have now passed and I can hear the nails scratching their way down the blackboard as my nerves begin to wind themselves up to fuel an inevitable tirade.
I confidently expect a ring on the bell at this moment because in my experience it is only when you have written about something that reality finally manages to catch up and see the way in which it should be going. So, the jigsaw repairmen (you know the sort, the ones with no technical expertise and whose knowledge only extends to replacing the most obvious units in a machine in order to get it working) should be here now.
I paused a few seconds and no bell rang.
Perhaps my writing lacks the compelling verisimilitude which produces instant results, perhaps I should look back and be more pointed, or more desperate, or more furious or be prepared to spend more money and get a better make than the notorious Taurus (never buy it) brand.
Deep breath. Think of other things.
Tomorrow the Union and a three way conversation to find if anything can be done to frustrate the machinations of The Owner. My paperwork is almost all together, I am just waiting for the headteacher’s reference and then I am ready to go to the meeting and start writing the necessary letters.
The school is answering none of my emails which suggest the way that the institution is preparing to face my gentle assault: by ignoring me. I am sure that this was a perfectly effective way to see off the irritants in the past, but I am not one to be placated by feigned indifference.
The battle lines are drawn!
(Please add your own appropriate quotation from the works of William Shakespeare.)
But who wants to find contentment. Contentment (why not ‘content’?) equals stasis equals death. So I will dwell on the time that I have donned the Marigolds (metaphorically) and got down and clean by washing dishes using the old fashioned (and unhygienic) method of hot water, lemon washing up liquid and sheer exasperation.
It’s not really a question of which I prefer: washing or drying. I hate both. And the minimalist, white plastic curve which is supposed to be a draining rack which I had to buy (god how that rankles!) merely suggests stability for stacked dishes. A slight misreading of the topography of the sedimentary arrangement of plates and it all comes crashing down.
The delivery of our thrice futilely repaired machine is scheduled for the limited time slot of five hours from two in the afternoon to seven at night. Three of those hours have now passed and I can hear the nails scratching their way down the blackboard as my nerves begin to wind themselves up to fuel an inevitable tirade.
I confidently expect a ring on the bell at this moment because in my experience it is only when you have written about something that reality finally manages to catch up and see the way in which it should be going. So, the jigsaw repairmen (you know the sort, the ones with no technical expertise and whose knowledge only extends to replacing the most obvious units in a machine in order to get it working) should be here now.
I paused a few seconds and no bell rang.
Perhaps my writing lacks the compelling verisimilitude which produces instant results, perhaps I should look back and be more pointed, or more desperate, or more furious or be prepared to spend more money and get a better make than the notorious Taurus (never buy it) brand.
Deep breath. Think of other things.
Tomorrow the Union and a three way conversation to find if anything can be done to frustrate the machinations of The Owner. My paperwork is almost all together, I am just waiting for the headteacher’s reference and then I am ready to go to the meeting and start writing the necessary letters.
The school is answering none of my emails which suggest the way that the institution is preparing to face my gentle assault: by ignoring me. I am sure that this was a perfectly effective way to see off the irritants in the past, but I am not one to be placated by feigned indifference.
The battle lines are drawn!
(Please add your own appropriate quotation from the works of William Shakespeare.)
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