A Writer of Sorts
Mook seemed in a better mood today. Spiggy decided that something urgent needed doing, so undoing more rooms wouldn’t be the best idea. I don’t really think he had anything urgent at all, although one or two jobs had backed up and needed seeing to. I think he just said that as he could see that opening the rooms up was having a pretty strong emotional effect on me. I said nothing, but appreciated the gesture.
Mook decided he would go through the boxes and junk we collected from the library. If there was anything interesting, he’d put it to one side and we could look at it later. If there was junk, he’d bag it and throw it.
Fine by me.
After yesterday, I just want to sit in the greenhouse. Plant and weed. Plant and weed. The mindless repetition will do me good.
No great thrills to report, but when we sat down for lunch, Mook kept sniggering and wouldn’t meet my eye. He’d get three words into a sentence and crack up. Has he overdone the painkillers? Or been at the cider? It got a bit tiresome and I was obviously missing something. I went back to the greenhouse.
I had to endure Mook AND Spig doing the giggling at teatime. I wasn’t sure I liked being left out of whatever joke was going on, but they were finding it very amusing.
I suggested we needed to go and get some more straw in the morning and suggested we take the bedford out to one of the farms. They agreed through the giggling. I suggest they take the map and looked for a quarry, just to see if there were any tanker-type vehicles. We needed a way to get the oil back for the generators. Again, they agreed, stifling laughter.
“I’ve had enough of this. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
They just cackled so I stood up and went to my room. I wasn’t in the mood.
I read for a while and petted the cats. it felt like I’d neglected them a little since Spig and Mook turned up and they purred their appreciation at the sudden attention. I began to get a little paranoid. Mook’s strange attitude seemed to be directed at me and to find the two of them giggling conspiratorially . . . something wasn’t right and I would have to find out what.
Or maybe I should just reach for the tinfoil hat.