High dudgeon? Stratospheric dudgeon!

Scooter is outside in the dark on a neighbour's shed roof, in a terrible huff, and will probably choose to remain there all night. I can't blame him. I would like to be somewhere else right now too.

This has been a fairly horrendous afternoon. No photos; no time. Don't ask awkward questions about why tins of paint were in my bedroom either.

In brief:

Two calls missed as I hosed a filthy mud-encrusted labrador down in the back yard, after a long, pleasant but exhausting walk through the Dene. Tree surgeons are everywhere, their heavy vehicles churning up enough mud to keep a dog blissed out for weeks.

Took advantage of mild weather, and pressure-washed the yard. Came in with back aching, but carried on with task of clearing up in attic after all the shower room painting. Disaster struck: TWO tins of paint (gloss and emulsion) dropped on my bedroom rug, lids not well secured on either. Much scraping and scooping of paint back into tins, regardless of hair and fluff going in with it. 

Also managed to paint-splatter the muddy socks and trousers I had just taken off and the clean ones I had just put on. A little white gloss paint goes a long way....

One new basin tap came apart in my hand as I rinsed the paint-soaked sponge used to clean gloss paint off the scraper before using said scraper on the emulsion paint. Hot water running freely, as tap cross-head would not screw back on, but, thankfully, running into basin.

Sprinted downstairs. Washing machine pulled out, but arms too short to reach round it to turn water off at stopcock. Neighbour Sandra called in; she could reach, but arthritic hands couldn't turn the stopcock - plumber Richie the last one to touch it,  evidently has vice-like grip.

Pulled freezer out too, and fascia came off in my hands. Will apply duct tape, the hapless housewife's friend, tomorrow. Then had bright idea: turned off water heater setting on boiler, so only cold water could gush freely from topless tap. Felt less criminally wasteful.

Richie's phone turned off, but with much perseverance, Sandra managed to put tap back together again, although it's now a bit wobbly. Eventually Richie called back and is coming round to sort it all out.

The two missed calls later revealed via email to be estate agent wanting to book a viewing on my house - the house that is not on the market at the moment - tomorrow at 11 a.m. Surprised myself with politeness of response: refusal. I can be available on Wednesday afternoon, not before. Tomorrow I will be lying down in a darkened room.

Then something nice: Roger and Tim arrived bearing an enormous wedge of birthday sachertorte made by a friend. Didn't fall on it like a ravening wolf, despite sore temptation, but ate it daintily after a salad made from the meagre offerings at the bottom of the fridge.

Continued to wash bedroom rug and paint-covered clothes, with mixed success.

Later, took dogs out, and almost fell over a strange cat outside my back door. Ancient, thin, coat badly matted, an oldie lost and confused, and obviously completely blind. Yes, I took it in, of course I did. And was it grateful? Of course it wasn't. Isn't.

Now in a puppy crate in the back kitchen with food, water, a litter tray and a soft blanket, but loudly displeased to have been kidnapped. Posters and calls to vets will be arranged tomorrow.

Three of my cats are on wide-eyed patrol; Scooter is making A Point outside.

Perhaps tomorrow will be better. But you've no idea how grateful I am for that huge piece of sachertorte.....