It’s a daily torture: Jason has his google page set up so his emails display whenever you open up the browser. This is very hard for me. Obviously I don’t ever ever ever read them, but I really really really really really really really reaaaallly want to. Not because he will be up to anything he shouldn’t be; his emails are mostly very boring stuff about sport and photography. It’s the principle of the thing, the principle being that it’s wrong to read someone’s private correspondence even if they make it easy for you. In former times this would apply to letters and bills left lying open on the mantelpiece. Postcards are the exception of course. So anyway Jason is being deliberately provocative by leaving his emails lying round in a public place. Some people like my parents have a shared email account and know one another’s passwords to everything from bank accounts to ebay. Me and Jason still have some areas of electronic knowledge that are separate and that reminds me, he’s annoyingly secretive about his bank pin number. I’m only going to spend all his money on food and baby clothes anyway, he might as well let me use his card at cashpoints.
The door into the kitchen is currently being sawn to pieces by a skilled carpenter. I chose him from yell.com because I was tickled by his poshly double barrelled name and he is in person, indeed, fairly posh. That didn’t stop him sucking his teeth in the way of the most proletarian workman and upping the price by 30 quid. Some things are universal. The only difference appears to be he is wearing corduroy trousers not trackie bottoms. He’s just asked me if his tools will be safe in his car parked in the Close. The answer is probably but your tyres might get chewed to pieces by a pit bull. What a girl’s blouse.
Rose unexplainedly cried when she saw the nice man in the plumbing shop on Kirkdale yesterday. I thought maybe his flowing white hair might have given her a fright, in which case she is going to have a problem with Christmas. I have a totally perverse thing about her crying: I quite like it because I just love the feeling when you give her a cuddle and she rests her head on my shoulder and calms down. Usually though the rug of smugness is pulled from under my feet when I put her down in the cot and she starts crying again.
Jason took some pictures of her on her tummy yesterday and the anguish on her face is quite impressive. Strange that she keeps doing it despite the tsorres. Interestingly she will stop for a few seconds, cry, then push herself up and start again. I think this shows more pluck and determination than those swimmers who train for 8 hours a day, after all they LIKE swimming while she seems fairly ambivalent about her tummy based activities. The way she is going she will be doing Olympic standard tummy time by 2010 easily.