I got a lot done this weekend. Following our renovations we had, piled outside, various bits of old carpet and underlay along with bags of stripped wallpaper and piles of carpenter's detritus. So I dredged through all the off cuts of wood, sorting them into bits that might be useful and bits that can be used for kindling. There were sheets of the old parquet floor from the hall that had to be broken up and stacked and eventually there was two baskets full of kindling in the house, a big pile of it outside and some I-hope-to-find-a-use-for-this-someday wood in the shed. I then carted the stuff for the dump around to one pile by my car and loaded as much as I could fit into the boot. (Driving to work this morning was smelly (damp moldy carpet) and dusty (see above) and, despite the cold, I drove with the windows open. The visit to the dump cost Eur12 for the car load which beats Eur480 for a skip, hands down).

Night having fallen, I then moved on to hanging our new curtains, which involved putting up poles and measuring and drilling and hanging and re-hanging. With the help of  a visiting friend, I moved the piano back to it's rightful place and I got some of the books off the floor and into the bookcases. I then moved on to the computer area where I re-cabled the mess, sorted the CDs and started on the paper filing. And then Sally set the house on fire.

I'm being slightly dramatic, but only slightly. All the kindling that I had worked so hard to collect had worked its magic and set the chimney alight. I'm a big girly about chimney fires and I had already been a little nervous of the fire earlier, but I had grappled with my irrational fear and put it to the back of my mind. So anyway, we put out the fire in the grate (although it was so hot, it kept re-lighting itself) and looked anxiously at the smoke and sparks coming out of the chimney. I checked the chimney breast upstairs and it seemed ok, and I even checked in the attic as it is possible for the bricks to crack and sparks to get into the attic and start a fire there.

But there was nothing and after I blocked off the fireplace downstairs, the smoke dwindled as the fire went out. And not once did I say I told you so.

I'm saving it for later...

I'm giving up on this Read Fifty Books This Year thing. I'm too worried about the rate I'm consuming books and not doing them justice. I should have read eight or nine by now and I haven't. I have however, decided to get involved with a Ulysses reading club which is just a different sort of pressure, for not only do I have to read the fifty pages a week, I have to come up with things to say about them. Also, the edition I have is not the same as the one used by the moderator so I have to read about seventy pages a week. I realise that there'll (probably) be the same amount of words, but I feel at a psychological disadvantage.

So, where're me specs?