The joys of spring

Ah, spring, when a young woman's fancy turns to thoughts of pedicures. And springcleaning.

If you were to visit Chez Scroobious today, you might detect a certain tension in the atmosphere. The walls are brighter, true, the air is fresher, but beneath all that... is the building actually shellshocked? Why yes. Yes, I think it might be.

There has been activity, you see, of the type that normally only happens when you move. The type that involves moving heavy furniture* and scrubbing in every nook and cranny. The type that drives your duster to start emitting pathetic whimpers** after the first room. The type that comes with running commentary like, "I didn't know it was that colour!" and "Oh, so that's where this got to."

It's been fun.

And that's not the only thing. In further frightening domesticity, I am all excited after visiting a lovely little shop full of fabulously colourful and shiny kitchen equipment. You know, real copper pots, that sort of thing. A Nigella Lawson fantasy. I came home with a titanium frying pan and some big knives. Most pleasing. But I keep having flashbacks to a conversation I had, at around 16, with a lovely woman who was almost a mother to me. She was really pleased with her new pots. I said, "If I ever get excited about pots, just shoot me." Yes. I actually said that, to this wonderful person whom I loved and admired very much. And yet we're still friends. I don't deserve such people.

Anyway, I'm excited about pots. It's the beginning of the end, or something.

Oh, and our long neglected posters have been dragged off to the framers. I tell you, we're going to be doing things differently around here, oh yes. Stuff will get done, not put aside for dealing with later. Uh huh.

Well, a girl can dream.

Further signs of spring:

1a) Catnip resurgent.
1b) Stoned cats.
2) Birds. I'd forgotten how many of them we get around these parts. Cool.
3) My fingers are starting to itch for weeding, not knitting. (Well, not only knitting.)
4) Men are still crazy. I got a wolf whistle the other day, from a chap so old and toothless it came out as more of a wolf wheeze. Oh, and of course I shagged George Clooney on Friday night.

Uh huh. He wanted a threesome; he let me pick the other girl. She was dark and exotic, very sexy, but disappointingly passive. Still we had fun, me and George.

I never had a movie star dream before. I like that I go straight for the best.

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*A particular challenge since this little flat is so very crowded, with our furniture on top of the landlady's. In some cases literally.
** If you don't believe cloths can express themselves audibly, then you just haven't been cleaning enough.