On this day of glorious weather and amazing productivity on my part - including giving the car the fright of its life by washing it - I drafted my letter of complaint to British Airways, in between little episodes of sitting out in the sun with cups of tea and the occasional visitor, looking at a dazzling lineful of washing and a trayful of transplanted cauliflower seedlings, feeling that all is right with the world if you don't look too closely. Writing (or, if sensible, first-drafting) a letter of complaint offers the most wonderful opportunity for hyperbole, purple prose, melodramatic over-statement, and general self-pity. I used them all, in spades. Tomorrow I shall employ the pen of reason and restraint and take most of the worst excesses out of my letter, but it will retain sufficient hints of deep emotional distress to leave British Airways, who are probably chin-high in such letters, in no doubt that I have been seriously upset with them. Although today the upset seems somewhat remote; it is hard to stay feeling aggrieved when the sun shines and the world gleams; nevertheless, British Airways is going to get its ticking-off from me. My sister, the arch-complainant, would never forgive me if I let it all drop....
And then the dog and I had a delightful walk in the Dene, admired the fully flowering cherry trees - well, I did; the dog harrassed innocent park-bench-sitters for a bit of their ice cream - and came home for our dinner. A very satisfying day all round, we think.
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