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yet.
    And it got worse. I took a pair of perfectly respectable fifty-somethings to view ‘Cherry Ditchling’ and was just showing them the refurbished dressing room/en suite combo when the man threw up all over the place; hand stitched Italian silk throw, carpet, chenille bath mat, arrangement of silk gerberas/curly willow etc. - the lot. He had apparently over indulged at a Masonic lodge dinner and became nauseated at the smell of the (excessively oil-refreshed, admittedly) pot-pourri. Hah! He should try living at my house. But I cannot believe some people. Nothing to clear up with, of course, because the Rutlands don’t possess anything useful in the way of serious hardwear. They have it bussed in three times a week by the Little Darlings Home Valet Squeaky Clean Co (or whatever). And all I had to hand was a pack of travel wipes. In the end I telephoned Little Darlings, who agreed to come out and scrub up for me, but only at a price.
    Returned to the office to find a) that said couple had already called to say Cherry Ditchling was an overpriced heap and too close to the motorway anyway, and b) that there is absolutely nothing in the Willie Jones Jackson contract to cover vomit-related soiling accidents to clients’ property whilst viewing.
    Now nursing a headache and dehydration (thus the promise of a further headache later). I have nothing to look forward to for the foreseeable future except dithering over whether to tell Phil I don’t want to see him any more, and, speaking of vomit, waiting for Dan to get in touch and tell me he is still alive/has not succumbed to excesses of student life and is consequently lying face down in a similar pool. With Jack. Who no doubt is a bad influence all round. Oh, plus a no-frills dig for victory style dinner at 18.46. Plus jam.
    18.37 . Bright moment in my day! Email from Rose.
    [email protected]
    Dear Charlie,
    They put masking tape over metals (earrings etc.) when people have operations in case they use diathermy (cauterising etc.). As nipple rings pierce the flesh there is a danger of shorting, so you are on the right lines about the electrical aspect. Though, for day to day purposes, I suspect the plasters serve mainly to reduce chafing.
    Intrigued about the armpit thing. It’s these little windows of absurdity in the day that make life worth living, isn’t it?
    I’m going to have to press you on the Harris-Harper/Jones stalemate. Which one is number one? No ties allowed. For my part, I must say I’m relieved to be able to remove Phil from my list. Nice chap though he is, I was only being polite.
    Rose.
    Stalemate?
    [email protected]
    Dear Rose,
    You know perfectly well that there is really no contest. But are you terribly busy? How about hello, how are you, what have you been up to type stuff. Am beginning to think you can’t be bothered any more. In which case, sulking. I expect seriously long email, and soon.
    Charlie.
    PS have to cut my own communication short as Ben is having a prophylactic asthma attack; prophylactic in that his grandfather asked him to accompany him after dinner to the village bulb sale, and in a financially-challenged moment he rashly agreed. Now, of course, he has love etc., and has no need of earthly pleasures such as CDs/the price of renting a video and so on.
    18.49 . And twenty four bloody seconds.
    ‘Oh for God’s sake, Dad, I’m coming, okay ?’
    ‘Tsh! I don’t know. You young things spend far too much time dashing about like headless chickens. Rush, rush, rush! Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines! And now look. The broccoli’s had two minutes too long. Don’t blame me if it’s gone all flaccid.’
    ‘Look, Dad, it’s no big deal, okay?’
    ‘Not to you, perhaps, but if a job’s worth doing... and where’s that grandson of mine? Skulking? BEN! DINNER! ON THE DOUBLE! QUICK MARCH!’
    I go to bed at half past eight in a foul mood. My life is totally devoid of passion/direction (except I do now have £73.00 in