Back when I was 13 and working in the salubrious laundry of a nursing home, one of the cooks – impressed by my domesticity and obsession with neatly folding and organising the laundry cupboard – told me that I’d make a good wife someday. I’d clearly managed to keep my [lack of] cooking prowess under wraps.
This weekend I took a drill and put some shelves up in the Palacette. They’re still on the wall some three days later and look to last the distance. I’ve never felt more powerful.
I made and fitted my own Roman blinds, fixed my Swiss army knife, balanced and bled the radiators and tuned the telly. I’ve got a jar opener and I’m happy to take the bins out.
Why would I want a man?
For those of you that don’t know, I’ve spent my usual roaming outlay on a little house in Bristol clipping my wings temporarily in the process. Obvious aside from the Iceland and Suffolk adventures which I may presently rhapsodise about retrospectively. Only temporary but that will likely see this blog morph into a new form, a more domestic, local one, I daresay bordering on the mundane. Apologies in advance.
This is my latest adventure and I’m learning every day.