There's nothing like a little burst of ill temper to get you going on the housework, I find. And there's nothing like a call to the DWP (Dept. of Work and Pensions) to ask why they have sent yet another 4-page form asking for information supplied a zillion times already, to oblige you with a little burst of ill temper.
So, the form has been completed - the ill temper meant it was scrawled in untidy joined-up writing for the DWP to decipher, perhaps by comparing the form to the many previous ones containing identical information - rather than in careful block capitals, and the heaps of papers have been sorted, in a flurry of crossly-muttering activity.
Then the dog and I went out again, and the horrid little beast ran away from me, ignoring my calls and charging unbidden across roads where the traffic is intermittent but fast enough to squash a daft little dog who is being deliberately deaf. Now she is creeping about in a cowed fashion as though kicked and beaten rather than merely told off, following me abjectly through the house, clearly wanting to be forgiven. Not yet, would-be-suicidal terrier, not yet.
The Lovely Son has gone to Cannes with work. Recently he was in Zurich, and before that, in Scotland, on the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Somehow, a misspent youth is being overcome....