A Day in the Life

‘I rise at six and I feed the chicks…’

And that’s about all I can remember of a daft single by Benny Hill called ‘Harvest of Love’. My parents’ friends, Bill and Irene, gave it to them. They never really played it, but we kids would play it over and over on the old Ekco gramophone. ‘And oi’ll reap the ‘aaarvest of love…’

The point is, I do rise at six.  I say that, not in a self-justificatory way (as my mother has always justified her existence by claiming that she’s been ‘up since 5.30’ – though she usually fails to explain exactly what she’s been doing since 5.30; cutting peat?), but because it’s a necessity in this household.

My ‘girls’ leave for Brive at an ungodly hour. Just after seven, in fact. Tilley starts school at eight and Debs is often treating clients by 8.30. The journey to Brive takes half an hour and you have to add on ten minutes for Tilley to apply her make-up.

So I rise at six to speed them on their way. While our daughter spends far too long in the shower, I stoke the fire, make sure that the new heat pump is still turning and boil a kettle for our first-thing therapeutic hot lemons. And while the water is boiling, I give Daisy and Myrtle their croquettes and Alf his starter-for-five of bread scraps steeped in dog-food gravy. ‘Mmm, nice Max.’

I then get them their breakfast, sort out their lunch and look them out a CD for the journey. By raising shutter no.2, they can go out by the French windows we’ve always used rather than the front door at the side of the house, which I’ve failed to convince them to use.

Waiting for daylight, I tend to write my journal or try to get to the end of the chapter of the book that fell out of my hand in bed the night before. And when daylight arrives, I get dressed, go down to my still remarkably tidy cave, check that the boiler is still alight after Tilley’s shower, add salt to the water softener, pump up the bicycle tyres and take Alf out on his morning constitutional.

Back in the warmth, I turn on the computer. While it goes through its 20-minute warm-up routine, I make myself two cup-lets of egregiously strong coffee and listen to some ‘damn fine’ music as I muse about the day ahead.

Displacement activities like making the beds

After a quick look at the BBC and Guardian headlines just to reassure myself that I do still live in a big world outside this house, I start work. That might be an e-learning script or an article when I have paid work, or some current creative project when I don’t. Despite my uncommonly comfortable chair, I get up frequently and engage in such displacement activities as bed-making, sink-shining and tug-of-war with our demanding dog.

Have lunch, then either repeat or, if it’s not too inclement, get outside for some futile bit of gardening or some rather more critical maintenance to the house.  Allow to simmer till 4.30 or thereabouts when it’s time to feed the cats and to give Alf his main course – of croquettes moistened with dog-food gravy. ‘Mmm, nice Max.’

The last of the daylight allows me just enough time to give Alf his second ‘bicyclical’ constitutional of the day. It often coincides with the passing of the school bus. I wave cheerily at the driver. Depending on who’s behind the wheel, I may get a rather diffident acknowledgement. They probably think I’m mad.

And then I shut up shop for the day: retrieve wood, stack by side door and click on innumerable switches to send the shutters down on their graceful and technologically impressive descents. Since the ‘girls’ don’t get back from Brive till gone eight most evenings, I have time to carry on computing (they never filmed that one, did they?) before preparing supper.

After said supper, we might watch a little telly. Unless it’s Mad Men, Debs is usually asleep within five minutes. If it’s something particularly good, I’ll record it so she can watch the next five minutes the following evening. Then we go to bed with many Walton-esque declarations of everlasting love. ‘G’night grampaw…’ I read until the book slips out of my hand and wakes me with a start as it crashes to the floor.

Yes, ‘it’s Friday, it’s five o’clock and it’s…’ The Life of Reilly!! Hmm. Maybe I’d better start justifying my existence.