Wednesday, February 4 09
The duster was fed up. She felt overwhelmed. Mrs Bennet couldn’t fault any one of the builders. The Darcys in the Dirt had become her friends and it was reassuring to have them around. She’d missed them this morning. It was strangely quiet as snow and ice prevented the Darcys living on steep hills and isolated lanes reaching her quiet cul-de-sac. The little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t like it either. Their mother’s attention was no longer enough. They wanted more. Mrs Bennet hoped it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.
Drilling filled the air once more. The Darcys in the Dirt were back, determined to finish the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait to have her home back. A tent would do if it was spacious, dust and clutter-free. There were now four chests of drawers in Mr and Mrs Bennet’s bedroom. And four chests in one bedroom were far too many!
Mrs Bennet was furiously writing at her computer, frantically hammering the keys. There were only two things in life which made her unwind, writing and running. And as she couldn’t physically get to the gym because of the weather, she did what she knew would boost her spirits: write.
To be honest she was upset. She had just been told her weekly column and creative page was to be dropped due to the recession. It meant more to her than money. It was her lifeline. She loved meeting the plethora of artists and inspirational people her town was proud to have. And she would miss them. Writing for her was like a window – a window into another world where imagination, and freedom prevailed as well as an ability to be who she wanted to be. At the moment her lounge had no light filtering into it. The double doors were so dirty, you couldn’t see out and it made those sitting inside feel claustrophobic and trapped. Mrs Bennet had her back to it and gazed at the computer screen in front of her.
“Well, if this particular publication doesn’t want Mrs Bennet, maybe it’s time she spread her wings and fulfilled her dream. Mrs Bennet, let’s get published! Let’s get a book off the ground to help save your sanity and that of fellow mums and dads who at times feel overwhelmed by this emotional parenting roller-coaster,” she told herself.
“And if that fails, Mrs Bennet you can always get a job being a teas maid to the Darcys in the Dirt!”
Showing posts with label duster. Show all posts
Showing posts with label duster. Show all posts
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Where's the wife?
Tuesday, February 3 ‘09
A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.
A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.
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