Disgruntled is such a fabulously descriptive word—it conveys a stomp, and a sulk, with black clouds looming on the brow. This morning’s gruntle, as it were, has been brought on by the pool machinery throwing a wobbly in the small hours of the morning. It’s never a good feeling to wake up to the sound of running water (unless one lives in a mill-house of course). Lying in the dark, I did have a go at trying to persuade myself it was refreshing dawn rain, or alternatively the gurgles and snorts of Drama Queen No.Three, who has taken over her father’s side of the bed as he is overseas.
I should point out that whenever we have a middle of the night emergency in the house involving incidents such as:
a) potential burglars ringing doorbell at 1:00 a.m.,
b) the smoke alarm located on a ceiling (which requires ladder access) malfunctioning and emitting high pitched beeps designed to wake household at irregular intervals,
or c) Drama Queens vomiting in perfect synchronization.
The one common factor that links all these events is that you can guarantee Husband is off on his travels and I am left to deal with emergency.
Last night events ran par for the course as it swiftly became obvious that the cascading water noise could not be dismissed as the patter of raindrops, and I hauled myself up to investigate. I followed the sounds of splashing and gushing, accompanied by the intrepid dog, who, true to normal male form, trailed discreetly behind me in case any kind of real danger lurked. I discovered the pool in the back garden was roiling and boiling in the manner of a modest, back garden, dipping spot about to produce its very own Loch Ness Monster.
There’s nothing like fumbling around in the pitch dark—particularly in the innards of a large bit of machinery that is giving the strong impression that it is about to explode—to put one in a good mood. Particularly when the rescue operation has to be conducted while wearing something that was once a perfectly respectable nightie, but following a close encounter with my absent-minded clothes-washing routine has now shrunk to the equivalent of a baby doll negligee. In hindsight, it was probably just as well that it was pitch dark—it wouldn’t have improved my mood much to have the dog clasp a paw over his eyes at the sight of so much flesh quivering with fury.
To add insult to injury, I couldn’t even resort to a restorative raid of the larder or drinks cabinet, as I was mid-fast for some routine blood tests this morning. The good news is having endured the blood letting, good humour has been resumed, aided by large cup of coffee and some vegemite toast with a couple of friends up at the local Italian emporium.