It’s beginning to look ...

... like finally time to clean the oven. Sadly this highly recommended product from the local DIY store produced lots of foam, but very little actual cleaning. I should have realised from the absence of warnings of certain death on the back, and the fact that I wasn’t told to wear gloves. In the end, my regular kitchen cleaner, used undiluted, and a lot of Brexit-anger-venting scrubbing and swearing produced a passable result.

While we’re on Brexit, can someone nominate John Crace for an OBE for services to mental health? His columns have been the only thing getting me through the week.

Rain all day. Much work. The Saab was finally taken away (under its own steam, much to my surprise, though from what was coming out of the exhaust, the guys may have suspected I had converted it to run on coal...) and we bought a Christmas tree. I told TallGirl she could choose, so obviously she picked the bent one because she felt sorry for it. However, by the time we went back to actually buy it (10 minutes later) someone had bought it! (CarbBoy’s tutor, as it happens.)

We may not have exactly stuck to Mr B’s brief of a small tree that can sit on a table, but Christmas is for The Children, so it seems fair that they chose. And it fit in a hatchback, so it can’t be that big.

I’m having one of those days when Mr B working away is not a thing up with which I can put. I know he would rather be here too, and I have no right to feel grumpy. So I’ll stop, go to bed and get up tomorrow with only two and half days to go until he gets back. (When I will immediately start complaining about how he’s under my feet all the time, never cooks enough veg, and snores too much. Happy days.)