As the girls were all out, and Charlie more or less comatose (first day of the holidays and all that) I have spent the morning cleaning the windows. My hope is that tomorrow morning, when the sun streams in through the previously murky panes with a dazzling new brightness, I will be able to convince the family that somebody has stolen all the glass out of our windows overnight.
This plan is only slightly thrown into jeopardy by the fact that Anna (the redoubtable Mrs T) looked out every now and then to advise me to be careful, and not to fall off the ladder. It must be pride that makes such advice, given with the best intentions by somebody who loves one dearly, so incredibly irksome...
Up the ladder, I was naturally reflecting on Lord Finchley. Whilst I am not exactly a wealthy man (though anyone extrapolating from Anna's spending habits might conclude otherwise), I would quite like to give employment to the artisan in this instance. However, the local window cleansing technician has one of those brushes on a long handle with a hose attached. Thus he never leaves the ground. The system is admirable for knocking the paint off one's window frames, but inadequate for removing the house martin mess from the panes (which tells you how long it is since last I cleaned them...)
The other imaginary companion to this tedious task was, of course, George Formby...
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