Not Nigella...

 The left side of my face is in pain.  From temple to cheekbone is puffy as if I have just had my first round of botox. I feel heat coming from it and I suspect a bruise is waiting to surface.  Domesticity is not my second nature and it surely is not for those who can't take a little punishment. Don't worry, we don't have stairs in our house, I am too tall to be walking face first into door knobs, I always have a bathmat down when showering/bathing to avoid slipping.  P does not kiss with her knuckles.  The only abuse I have been suffering is from our clothes line. P and I will intermittently be separating (never fear, blog flow will not slow down (it would actually be impossible to be any less frequent (unless offcourse we stop altogether and P won't let me (not that I really want to, it's just that I have been consumed with other details and I apologise for being MIA (not actually MIA because I am actually S))))).

Hello, welcome back from the tangent.  So, we are vacating premises and that means that the most trying housecleaning test lies before us.  I got started nice and early with the most arduous task - sorting through all my photos whilst reclining in bed with coffee.  Then at around 10am I started on the laundry, dishes and library.  By 11am the towels had washed and since it is a nice sunny day and it is winter and global warming is making me feel bright, sunshiny and a little guilty, I decided to brave the long grown dewy lawn, and make it to the clothes line in the backyard.  I had hung the second last towel and inspiration strikes for a humorous greeting card that I could fashion.  Using my new phone (RIP Nokia E97 (see blog, 'Ode to the Lost')) I capture the image of the washing peg which doubled as my muse, and whilst musing on the various lines that would accompany said image I hang the final towel and with it my the secret joy I had for having a trauma-free face.  The stupid thing, hereinto hinged to the wall to form a pleasing right angle, crashes down on my head forming a decidedly less pleasing acute angle and causing me acute pain. I lay slain. I become damp from the lax grass. I know that I will never be like Nigella.  This would never have happened to her.  Realising that death is not actually imminent, recovered from shock, having curbed swearing at only one or two emphatic blows, quietly pleased that I did not cry and a little disquieted that tomorrow I might be considered grotesque at work, I picked myself up. 

I verbally and physically corrected the washing line.  I found a neglected bag frost-bitten beans from the depths of the freezer and applied it to my face.  I proceeded to clean and pack single handedly.   I went to a service station for tea. I am not a domestic goddess.     

S.