AFTER the appalling weather on Saturday and Sunday I thought I ought to sit down and write a list. One hundred and one things to do on a wet weekend. Don't expect much, because I'm not into double figures yet. There's something terribly depressing upon waking up to yet another howling gale and driving rain that makes you want to head for the nearest fireplace, or in my case radiator, and hug it all day. Or return straight to bed and pull the duvet over your head for the rest of the morning. That option is out for me, because as soon as I wake up I have to get up, usually very early. This is on account of my grandmother who considered that anyone still in bed by 8am was going to hell in a handbag. I've never quite understood that saying, but it seems appropriate. As far as she was concerned you got out of bed in the morning, washed and dressed with speed (it was a very cold house) and were up and about before the sparrows started coughing in the garden. You certainly didn't wear a dressing gown for any longer than it took you to get to the bathroom and, in fact, my grandmother didn't approve of dressing gowns, or, heaven help us, housecoats. There was quite a famous film around in the early 1960s called 'Woman in a Dressing Gown' which was basically about a woman going down hill fast, drink I think it was, and who was rarely seen out of her quilted housecoat, which illustrated my grandmother's point perfectly. So the words 'lie-in' were unknown and the only time anyone was to be found under the covers in the morning was when they were sick and even then you had to hang onto the eiderdown because of my grandmother's firm belief that germs were more likely to get you if you were prone rather than moving around, preferably in the 'fresh air'. So, with hibernation out, other things have to be found to fill the day. Gardening was the original plan for the weekend, and the previous one as well. There may be a lot of people who are willing to don floor-length waterproofs and balaclavas to garden in all weathers, but I'm not one of them, besides all my garden jobs which are outstanding at the moment, and there are a lot of them, depend on each other. For instance, the pots of plants which need winter protection have to go into the greenhouse but to do this the triffids which have taken over the greenhouse have to be hacked down and removed. The triffids in question are squash plants which were supposed to be cucumbers only the label fell off the pots of seedlings. Bred, no doubt, for our chilly summers, this squash was in gourd heaven in the warm confines of a glasshouse and proceeded to produce enormous leaves as big as small umbrellas. Worn out by this prolific foliage production it hasn't had the strength to make fruits any bigger than golf balls. Triffid removal is hampered because the hedge which runs between the vegetable garden and the main garden has had its long-awaited heavy pruning and although my son-in-law has cleared up the debris from one side the other side is judged to be my side and the path is now impassable and I can't reach the greenhouse. I can't complain, because, I'm always yelling at people to keep out of my vegetable garden so I now can't ask anyone to help clear fallen branches which are also mine. So, no gardening, and no giant bonfire which I had hoped to get away with because it was bonfire night and everyone would have bonfires smoking the neighbourhood out. Except they didn't either. So far, the list of things to do etc hasn't even reached a single figure. Oven cleaning comes to mind, because if one is depressed anyway one might as well do one of the most depressing of household jobs. Except my ideal when it comes to cleaning the oven of the cooker I hate most in the world is to throw it away and buy a new one. What's needed is a series of activities which can be done sitting down in a nice warm room. Somewhat limiting, but here goes. First, fill in new address book because old one is falling to pieces. Throw away old one once job is completed. Decide I can't because I might have missed a vital number or address. This always happens and old one will join all previous old ones in drawer 'just in case'. Second, clean out holiday handbag, emptying it of sand, shells, receipts, ticket folders, something that looks like a kebab but turns out to be a large unidentifiable seed. Put away until next year. On a runner now. Clear bookshelves of books which will never be read again. Place in carriers and put in boot of car. Know they will still be there in a month's time but it's the thought that counts. Restack shelves with remaining books, putting cookery and gardening books in separate sections in height order. Feel pleased with myself so spend next two hours reading a library book as a reward. Later clear out top drawer where I keep all the things I can't think where else to put. Remove anything that is more than two years old, including old Christmas cards. Find 23 things I've been looking for for weeks, replace in drawer. Find two packets of marshmallows I'd been going to make into an interesting cake topping two Christmases ago. Decide they may be well past their sell-by date because I don't remember them being green. Catalogue all my seeds which weren't used this year. Place dried seeds which were collected last year in envelopes. Can't read all the writing on the labels though, hope st ps are sweet peas. Decide to tackle the drawer where all the things went in last year's top drawer clear out. Find several unfinished knitted garments which are now approaching heirloom status and bravely drop into rubbish bag, along with piles of bank statements etc. Then remember identity and bank detail theft warnings and remove. Then remember I don't bank there any more and replace, torn into pieces. Another reward, this time the crossword, takes me through to darkness falling, which today is about 3.30pm. Early evening and it's still raining. Somewhere in the house begins a whine which I suspect is being repeated in many a household round the area. It's the whine of a child who can't understand why nobody is willing to stand in a monsoon and a howling gale to let off fireworks. In the houses behind our garden one brave soul has obviously had enough of more than one small child whining and we hear the odd rocket go off and a few muffled bangs, but no sign of a bonfire. Try to explain to our small child that fireworks won't light in windy and wet weather, a fib which is quickly unmasked by the sound of the Ginsters' firework display starting on the other side of town. Small child, who is now very adept at putting together a cognitive argument isn't slow to point this out. Promise faithfully that we'll do the fireworks tomorrow night, and maybe light a bonfire if I can get to the greenhouse to remove the triffid etc etc. Sunday morning, howling gale and torrential rain. Deja vu time weatherwise. My things to do list has reached an impasse, it may have to be the oven (it wasn't). Sparklers are out again, the triffid still lives and the only happy people are the cats who haven't had to spend the night under a bed with their paws in their ears. P.S. Talking of a small child, who is my eight-year- old grandson, I had reached the front door the other afternoon when he rushed up the path and elbowed me out of the way to get inside. I hauled him back. 'Ladies first,' I said. 'Why?' he said. And do you know for the life of me I couldn't think of anything to say. After all, we, or rather the female we, spend a lot of time telling him that women and girls and boys and men are equal these days so it doesn't always follow that women do the washing up while men do manly things like watching the football on the tele. So I couldn't well undo all this good work, could I? I couldn't think of a reason why he shouldn't go in front of me into the house. Well, yes I could. Picking him up firmly by his coat collar and depositing him behind me, I said: 'Because I'm bigger than you.' And that was that.
