Monday, Funday! Some days run like oiled clockwork. Others don’t. This week hasn’t started well. Probably my fault because cheesed off by wedding attended yesterday. Seated next to a chap I knew to be a partner in a marketing agency, interesting, I thought, lots in common. By the time we were halfway through the meal, (Trout. Bony. Problematical in a social setting) I knew about his business, client base, education, hobbies, family, last six year’s holidays and newly acquired Spanish villa. Were it not for impeccable manners, would have laughed when he leant across me several times to find out from R (husband) what he did, where his office was, how he was finding the current climate and which way did he think things were headed house price wise. Only question he asked me was whether I’d pass the salt. Oh Pankhursts was it all for nothing?
Switch on dishwasher, washing machine and robot vacuum cleaner (don’t ask!). Optimistically throw braising steak and veg into slow cooker, Nigella, I’m not. Head office-ward with hot coffee which am unfortunately unable to set down quickly enough before being overtaken by a sneeze. Coffee all over my trousers, computer keyboard, book of stamps and, oddly enough, most of the wall. Midway through clean-up lugubrious chappie phones to say he’s got me off the web. He’s a practising psychic, looking for a ghost writer to work on his biography. Well I laughed, you’d have to wouldn’t you? He didn’t. Gave him a rough quote, he said he’d think about it and call back. Would rather he didn’t, don’t feel we’d make a good team.
Morning post arrives promptly at 2.30 pm but brings cheer in the form of two overdue cheques. Followed swiftly by call from potential new client– she sounds delightful, is opening a beauty clinic and needs business name, web site text and leaflets. We set a meeting for next week and revitalised I finish work on a couple of newsletters. One for a networking organisation where I’m allowed free rein to ramble and another for a financial planning and taxation company where strangely enough they prefer me to stick to the facts – go figure.
Small hitch arises around 5.00 when the man from Ocado phones to ask why I’m not answering my doorbell. I say he hasn’t rung it. He says he has. Am not prepared to debate so hare downstairs. No Ocado. Van or man. On the phone he’s now verging towards shirty. Where, he says, am I? I say I’m at my front door. He says he’s standing outside my front door and I’m not. Into the consciousness of both of us seeps the possibility that somehow, somewhere and probably a rogue sat nav is to blame, something’s gone awry. I say will be delighted to see him, as and when. Probably been quicker to nip down to Waitrose and do the shopping myself.