I'm Bushed

  

I had a small assistant today and a three-year-old can really take it out of a person.  Not that he's demanding or anything, he's just busy which meant that I was busy too, and I'm more of a non-busy person most of the time.  Oh, I know it looks on here like I'm busying around all the time but in reality I do things quickly so I can sit on my keester most of the time.  

He and I went outside with our shovels and filled in all of the rat holes we could find.  He's a very enthusiastic digger and seemed surprised to have free rein with his shovel and hoe.  He played a little golf and we hit a tennis ball a little but mostly we dug.  And filled bird feeders.  We made bird's nests which is rice krispie treats but with chow mein noodles instead of cereal.  Well, I made it and he snacked on the ingredients and kept up a line of chatter while I cooked.  Then we made cornbread, carrot, cheddar waffles for lunch.  We peeled the carrots together, it was his first time with a peeler.  Standard Meemaw-day stuff.



I took the second piece of bad pants to knitting with me tonight along with my seam ripper and in about 45 minutes I got all of those lovely stitches ripped out.  Tomorrow I'll use a lint roller to try to capture all of the thread schnipples to tidy it up so I can take another run at it.


The other thing I did at knitting was take that cowl off the needles and return it to its original state.  I used the specified needles but it looked like a hat, not a cowl, or if it was a cowl, it'd be a darned snug one.  I'll be taking another run at it using a couple size larger needles and a more relaxed frame of mind so that my stitches aren't so tight I can't poke the needle into them.  (I think my knitting mojo's on hiatus lately)

25 October--Barbara Malcolm, Spies Don't Retire. 

Major George Clemment, ex-MI-5, didn’t sleep much the night after Billie Holland-Smythe’s party either.  Rather than standing smoking as Dimitri had, he paced.  At first he paced in the house but eventually, in the darkest hour of the night, the house became too confining.  He let himself quietly out of the front door, easing the lock and gently pressing the door into the frame to close it.  Then he paced in earnest, up and down, up and down, on the narrow tarmac-paved lane in front of the house.  He would have walked up the beach to watch for the sunrise but the sand was too soft for the sort of march pace he required.  After the first hour of silent marching, grunts could be heard forced from his lungs as if he were climbing and exerting himself.  The louder the grunts grew, the faster and bigger became his movements—his arms swung to almost shoulder height in front, his fists were balled, and his steps became almost lunges.  By the time the eastern sky had gone from darkest black to palest gray his feet had slowed.  His rigid soldier’s posture had relaxed.  If Sonia had been awake to witness George’s forced march of the last two hours she would have known he had reached a decision.

Shortly after six A.M. he let himself back into the house and padded to the kitchen to make coffee.  By the light over the sink he slid a fresh filter in the basket, measured out three scoops of aromatic Sumatran coffee, and filled the reservoir with fresh cool water from the tap.

As the water bubbled and dripped through the grounds, George reached for the telephone and made a call.  He didn’t have to look up the number; he’d done that as soon as they had arrived home from Billie’s party.

He had memorized it.  It took quite a bit of self-control not to tear the page out of the thin island telephone book, shred it, and destroy it, but Sonia’s hand stayed his.  “We might want to call someone listed on that page later, dear.”  Then she kissed his cheek, said good night, and went into their bedroom.

George waited a few moments and then followed her.  As he had hoped, his wife was sitting in her dressing gown at her vanity table, brushing her hair.  Her robe was untied and she was nude, her silken breasts reflected in the mirror as she raised her arms to brush her hair.  “My favorite time of day,” he said.  She smiled at him, the sure knowledge of her allure sparkling in her eyes.  He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed on his chest, and smiled at the woman before him.  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”  Her reflection smiled back at him.

“You only say that because I let you ogle my breasts every night.”

“True.  Well, partly true, but even when you are bundled up in a parka I think you are ravishing.”

The ivory back of her hairbrush clicked against the glass surface as she lay it down.  “Come and ravish me then.”

George didn’t need a second invitation.  In record time he had cleaned his teeth, run a quick razor over his face, and was sliding nude under the cool covers next to his wife.

As she ran her hands over his smooth cheeks, she chuckled.  “Doesn’t the old cliché say only young men shave at night?”

He growled and burrowed his face into the cleft between her breasts.  “Wouldn’t want to snag the silk, would I?”

After their lovemaking they lay entwined, George stroking Sonia until she rolled away in her sleep.  Then he lay on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.  He dozed off and on, but by four o’clock, he knew he wouldn’t sleep until he had come to a decision.  He rolled cautiously out of bed so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, pulled on a pair of soft cotton pajama pants, and went down to the main rooms to begin his pacing.

 

Th-th-that's all folks.  Having that small person kind of consumed my day.  Tomorrow I plan to see if I can't get those pants sewed correctly and check to see if the filled in rat holes stayed filled in. I guess I'm kind of taking attendance.  Oh, and it was sunny today.  All day.  Thank. God.
--Barbara