Predictable

It’s been raining for days, weeks. The air is saturated and nothing is drying. The front doormat is swollen where water has seeped through the door, or under it, and the wood has swollen so that the door doesn’t open without great force. Closing up the house is almost impossible as the door no longer slams. It was expensive, but we installed it during the Celtic tiger years and it was clearly sub-standard when made. It is oak, but might as well be pine.
I got up to find all four windows on the car were half-open, and had presumably been that way all night. It seems they must have opened because of an electrical short-out, or else someone came into the yard during the night and opened them for fun. It may be that the door fob made that happen. I seem to remember being told by the car servicing guy that if you press and hold the locking button (or if it is pressed accidentally in your pocket for any length of time, the windows all open. Why, I have no idea. Is that a safety thing, in case some small child is trapped in the car you can’t get to them? The result is four soaked car seats and presumably lots of damage to the upholstery. Nice.
I made some coasters yesterday afternoon and by rights they should be too dry to impress the client’s logo on, but this morning they were as soft as they were just after I’d made them. They won’t be dry enough to turn this afternoon, so perhaps it’s just as well that everything has slowed down. No more headlong rush through the process.
At ten I’ll be hosting a meeting of the Chamber of Tourism committee on the commercialization of the website. We’ve got three potential suppliers coming in to talk to us, but they will see this as a marginal call – hardly worth the trip, and the committee will see it as a gargantuan task of great importance to ensure we find the best performing supplier – the one who will go the extra mile for us. Once the recession ended, half the world still thought all suppliers should continue to be inordinately grateful for crumbs, while the other half woke up to the seller’s market and resigned themselves to chasing suppliers. I had phone calls from customers arguing about my prices and wanting discounts, long after I had any interest in discounting. Out of fifteen agencies approached for this contract with the Chamber, only three have made any effort to respond. I don’t have high hopes.
The meeting will be attended by one or two businessmen who understand what is wanted and one or two jobsworths or justice-seekers who feel it is incumbent on them to stop others being commercial at all. They see the Chamber as some sort of club like the Round Table or the Rotary Club or the Lions. There will be arguments about what is fair and right, what is worth the money and what is not, what is progress and what constitutes loss of power. The Chamber seems to be a small pond for fish, who see themselves as too big to swim in it, who only swim in it because they’re resting or retired or bored. I might ask why I’m involved. It might be because I want to help make it better, or because I truly believe it will benefit me, or perhaps I too am resting or retired, certainly bored.
After the meeting, there will be a requirement for a little shopping for items in the market which are not needed, but which have been requested because Christmas is coming and then back to the email which will be all about surveys which are not progressing. Christmas really does freeze up all pipes. The afternoon will wear on. There will be more rain. I will not seek out the news, though there might be disasters elsewhere to spectate. I will not venture out or look for alternative stimulation. The evening will draw in, along with its rigmaroles. Lighting the sitting room fire, watching a little rubbish on TV, eating some quickly thrown-together food as herself is going to the gym and ‘don’t worry about food for me’. Time will pass inexorably.
The questions, which might otherwise insert themselves into the day: What is your purpose? Why do you do what you do? Is this it? Will rest on their combined laurels and not be asked.

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