hell's bells

Sunday morning and, back in the north, I sit in bed, missing my husband who has returned to London. We passed, like ships in the night, exchanging a wistful glance across the central reservation of the A1, he on his way back to London’s fair city, I on my lonely return into exile. I am banish-ed, there is no life without Islington’s walls. From the village church comes the bells' toll, do they toll for me? I hope not, they’ve got no bloody business tolling on a Sunday morning when people are trying to have a lay in. Church bells, like other people's children, should be seen lovingly described in the pages of Joanna Trollope novels but not heard. I should go and storm into the church and give them a piece of my mind, but I don’t want to cause a scene, at least not a scene from the end of the The Graduate anyway . The pen is mightier than the sword, or rather my new Aga laptop is mightier than the sword and uses more metal in the construction too. Some people sniff that a laptop that requires your nanny to help you carry it and which runs on burning woodchips and ramblers' trousers collected from barbed wire fences is nothing but a status symbol and something from PC World is just as practical for writing to the environmental health officer about noise from people doing things that you don’t do and at inconvenient times. They’re just jealous because they haven’t got a car with adequate suspension to transport it. They're absolutely essential when you live in the country and everyone has them you know. It looks like that letter means my Sunday is spoken for. It’s a good thing I don’t do anything on Monday to Saturday or that would really be a bother. Oh, for the peace and tranquility of home, but wait, the bells have ceased, now a glooming peace this morning with it brings, and a chance to work on more subtle shakespearean allusions for the blog. A woman's work is never done, sigh...