The novel is almost finished. I have a misty vision of the perfect, satisfying (but not too satisfying) ending. So I'm not getting down to it (many writers will understand this syndrome). Much better to leave it where it is, pregnant with brilliant possibilities, than actually to do it, and face disillusion.
I love our larder. I love being able to walk in and see exactly what there is, rather than open lots of drawers and cupboards. But it's a long time since I could see what there was in our larder. Plus, it needed a good clean.
I have to say, I've had a horrible afternoon. An afternoon of long-ago sell-by dates*, of scatterings of rice grains and crumbs, and, strangely, multiple half-used packs of toasted almonds. There was insect life, too. Silverfish, and what may have been weevils. Adrian would have photographed them. I just cleaned carefully round them. Oh, and a huge jar of pickled gherkins, which I once needed for a recipe, but which over time had morphed into what looked like primitive, grey amphibians.
The job is now done. Do I feel satisfied, now that everything is in neat rows and and least some things are still within their sell-by dates? Not at all. I just feel tired, my back aches, and I still haven't finished that novel.
*I once had, and treasured, a tin of anchovies dated 1987. I think they belonged to my father. I wonder what happened to them.