Sunrise at Sloggers’ Roost
Mr Slog’s diary
Awoke determined to move things forward outside, with particular focus on the shifting about of stones, cutting of grass, chopping of logs, hammering of nails and making of jam.
Hopped about bedroom like amputee trying to get into jeans, gave up and eventually lay back on bed tugging hard at legwear. Washed up last night’s dishes, opened door and approached initial hurdle of putting on wellies.
Tried to persuade right foot welly to remain upright long enough to allow entry of right leg, gave up and recruited dining chair in order to pull hard from sitting position. Performed same procedure with left leg. Collapsed knackered onto sofa and took short nap.
Eyes opened two hours later to sound of rain falling outside. Abandoned grass cutting, thinking ironically that had risen from being lower class to mower class. Postponed log chopping on grounds of waterlogged logs. Rejected jam manufacture because couldn’t be arsed. Focused on shifting stones.
Overjoyed to find stones easier to work in rain, congratulated self on recalling 3rd year physics principle of lower friction of stones when wet. Quickly rediscovered chemistry principle of wet stones heavier than dry stones. Suffered in noisy silence during futile attempts to shift stones. Last resort, hammering of nails.
Attempted to extricate legs from wellies. Profound creativity applied to invention of ajar door as agent of freedom. Fell backwards off dining chair. Called stone floor several Saxon Latin names. Got up off floor and watched as other leg slid effortlessly out of second wellie. Resolved to reject all school-based physics learnings in favour of Sod’s Law.
Hammered nails into walls of modern construction that flatly refuse to even consider use of screws and rawlplugs. Put pictures up. Felt better. Noted that little hand on clock was well past twelve. Resolved to award self with beer.
Was only one small screw-top away from Kronenbourg 4.2% medicinal throat treatment. Scraped skin from hands trying to unscrew the bastard. Wrapped bottle top in towel and pulled bicep muscle trying to make the stupid top unscrew while cursing brewers so ageist they cannot manufacture screw tops unscrewable by anyone beneath Olympic Gold medallist top unscrewers.
Resorted to rusty 1970s vintage bottle top remover implement. Drank beer. Drank another beer. Paused for reflection. Drank third beer. Made self cheese and ham toastie with freshly-sliced tomatoes from fridge. Suddenly seized with desire to eat seventeen pizzas. Fell asleep.
Awoke refreshed and, on seeing sun shining, put some clothes on quick-wash cycle. Remembered tractor-mower blade cover behaving in odd manner, drove mower onto inspection tracks formerly known as pigsty beams, stared at mechanical complexity underneath with sinking heart. Blades OK, mulcher A1, ah, Thingy holding up blade-cover bent. Hence stripes in grass of 2cms height on left and plough-furrow on right.
Last spanner in box fitted screw for Thingy perfectly but kept on going round. Found hammer and hit Thingy very hard. Screw fell off, cover slammed to floor. Thingy now even more bent. Detached Thingy, attacked it with masonry hammer on nearest concrete surface until rough shape of petrified snake achieved.
Went to odds and sods box, improvised new screw which, miraculously, held Thingy in place. Started engine, took mower out for sea trials, felt rain on head, put mower back in shed again.
Entered kitchen to see ‘wash finished’ light flashing. Looked through window as rain intensified into decent impression of Congolese monsoon. Emptied washing machine, went to bedroom, took out indoor clothes hanger. Spent forty minutes trying to create hanger shape functional for hanging up clothes, gave up, hung clothes on hangers using door knobs. House interior looked like Primark during a sale.
Decided to write day off, and write up blogpost about pointless day that would write down to experience.
The Slog 