Today there was a gale, and the tent came partially down and the rain formed a large puddle underneath it anyway and when I opened the wash-house window a little to let the tumble drier hose vent outside, the rain was so forceful that it slammed against the tumble drier and bounced downwards to make a big puddle on the wash-house floor. Then all the tent things came inside and everything was wet and the lounge is full full full of things while Brighid's room is being painted. I took the Christmas tree down in case we needed to light the fire (it is on top of the fireplace, with tinsel wound thickly round the flue). I still can't find the DVD of Mary Poppins I chose for Brighid for Christmas and indeed I cannot find anything specific in the lounge.
I retreated to my room and my book. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, by Aimee Bender, was quite good. Infinitely better than dealing with the lounge. I relaxed so much that I fell asleep instead of cooking dinner. My lovely Favourite Handyman, who had just nobly painted and painted for days until Brighid's room is now a completed and glorious orange, eventually appeared to ask if I was alright. They do notice the absence of food, and that tends to form a trail to wherever I am.
Fish and Chips. Very possibly not in my prescription for good eating this holidays. Better than the squall of unfed children though.