Struggles of an aspiring DG

As the weather here remains remarkably similar to that experienced by blipper Wildwood at the moment, this is the only photo I have taken today. I needed something to cheer me - and this journal - up with a blast of brightness. The savvy reader will instantly recognise the fact that on this dreich and uninviting morning I decided it was time to do something about the marmalade that has invaded my thoughts and posts for the past week or so, and started the process which, according to my much more qualified DGs, should be a patiently-paced one ...

The first realisation was that I have once again failed in the kilos vs lbs department. Let me explain. There have been no marmalade oranges to be seen in Dunoon this year, so we had to send for them. From the Fish Van, natch. Where else would you buy oranges? We put in our regular fish order at the weekend and they arrive the following Thursday, and this is Himself's job because in the year when he retired and I was still working he used to walk round to the van at 10am to buy our fish and chat like a retired person. Only thing is, he keeps remembering at odd times - like bedtime, even after I've left my computer and gone to shower or whatever. This time he shouted to me to ask what quantity I wanted. I'd been texting a Premier League DG about marmalade and she'd just ordered 4 kilos. Guess what?

Last year I used 2 kilos. We still have two jars left of last year's marmalade. When I saw the box that came yesterday, I was plunged into despair. So this morning, when I came to measuring out quantities, I sent out a few despairing texts to possible marmaladières (I just made that word up) and was relieved beyond words that my original informant would be perfectly happy to make more ... So I shall take them to church on Sunday. (You can take a break for a snigger/sneer/headshake at this point. I'm not proud.)

While I was tidying up and getting some lunch, the electrician and his apprentice arrived to change all the spot lights in our bathroom (the ceiling is too high and it's all too awkward for us to think of doing it.) Ever since Christmas they've been going out/flickering/flashing alarmingly, one after the other, so that the room can be depressingly dim. By the time we'd finished lunch they'd finished putting them all in. And since then Himself - the chief user of the main bathroom - has been cleaning every surface of sinister little bits of wire, plaster dust, mysterious objects - all, presumably, from the holes in the false ceiling. (For the avoidance of any confusion, I should point out that I'm so traumatised I'm blipping at 4.30pm rather than midnight.) And I've been out - took a heavy bag of recipe books from the early days of my marriage to a charity shop and bought - wait for it - more sugar. I've weightlifted myself into wakefulness in the wet.

Tonight there will be Himself's curry and we'll open a fresh bottle of wine. (We tend to drink it as an apèro on curry nights). Things can only get better ...

Footnote: DG = Domestic Goddess.