The perils of working from home

Managed to sleep pretty well, so got up, made coffee, got Ottawacker Jr. his breakfast, fed the cats, emptied the dishwasher, refilled the dishwasher, made Ottawacker Jr.'s lunch, made some more coffee, sat and listened to Ottawacker Jr.'s French reading (he's making inroads into Tintin - Vol 717 pour Sydney, obviously, there was a plane on the cover), said goodbye to the midget, watching as he walked determinedly to school, and then started my own day.
 
Having finished the translation yesterday and submitted it to my client, I started on my list of things for the day. Among the crucially important things that had to be done was to download the school photos from Edge (every year we are held hostage to the school photo heist) and then order enlargements for various family members whose lives would not be complete were they not to receive the annual evidence of Ottawacker Jr.’s growth spurts. Then I attacked the blips: somehow I had missed the last 10 days. I am seemingly incapable of turning things into a consistent routine. I blame the ADHD. Or the Tories.
 
Astounding the number of things that need doing – so I gave myself a list and did a few (wisely adding in “make a list” as item number 1, thereby crossing off the first item as I was writing it; it gives such a sense of accomplishment). Managed to catch up on a couple of outstanding emails; everything takes so much time. Especially the blips.
 
Anna added in a whole new level of torture to my workout at 2: she put Ukrainian rock into the mix. Now I no longer have to sit and stand and lunge and squat to a constant barrage of disappointed tuts, I have to do it to a constant barrage of disappointed tuts plus Ukrainian pop music. I have no idea what the crone was singing about, but at a guess, given the tone and the tempo and the constant shifts to a minor key, it was most likely about the death of a lover to a particularly insidious illness or, perhaps, Shakhtar Donetsk’s appalling recent home form. I am not sure whether the music was a direct punishment for my missing the last couple of weeks’ workouts, or merely an added bonus for her. Whatever it was, the lonesome female singer, who sounded, in parts, like Willie Nelson, and in others like Engelbert Humperdinck mating with a hyena, accompanied me through my pain.
 
And boy did I struggle today. You’d have thought shed have taken my recent absences into account, but no, we hit the ground running and didn’t stop for the whole hour. I made my way sorrowfully home and then sat in the shower for 20 minutes hoping the hot water would massage some feeling back into my body.
 
Cooked dinner. Made a spicy chicken, which became cajun chicken as soon as Ottawacker Jr. had the temerity to point out the skin was “burned”. Then some Portugal research and a game or two of Hearts, during which I reduced the other two Ottawackers to gibbering, tearful wrecks with the brilliance of my playing and my callous disregard for their feelings.
 

That’ll teach them.