An expensive week filled mostly with actual shit, where my sanity was saved by a canned mojito.

📮 Postcard #3

Hello Powells,

6.30am. Friday. I’m sat in the garden at my victorian style cast iron garden table on a damp cushion because I forgot to put it away and it must have rained in the night. My cup of tea is already cold beside me. The sound of baby lambs bleating fills my ears. Birds of all sorts are talking to one another happily, and if my bird app would bother to load, I could even tell you which ones. Other than the occasional quarry truck rumbling past it is peaceful: I’m internally thanking my angels for this gift because this week has been the definition of an actual shit-storm.

It all started a week ago today when Stefan and I were cleaning Ziggy’s dirty bottom in the courtyard and I discovered our trench drain was filled with toilet paper.

My glorious garden. Completely wild because I don’t know how to garden.

We were eating dinner in the kitchen when Ziggy sloped past us towards the lounge after doing his nightly business in the courtyard. After I finished my dinner, I retired to said lounge with a bowl of ice-cream. Ziggy was in his usual spot in the armchair and so I took up my usual spot on the sofa. I had the spoon half-lifted to my mouth when my nostrils caught a whiff of something they shouldn’t have been whiffing and it wasn’t long before I discovered a smear of dog poo on the arm of the sofa… which lead onto a cushion… over a blanket… across the rug and culminated in a tiny poo near the bookcase.

Ziggy isn't in the habit of using our furniture as toilet paper, so we concluded his evening's business had been a messy one and he'd decided the lounge was the best place to wipe his dirty bottom. A lift of his tail confirmed our theory and Ziggy was escorted into the courtyard for a wash. Whilst there, I noticed a pongy stench. Naturally, I blamed Ziggy’s bottom and had I not glanced down into our courtyard drain that’s where this story may have ended. Unluckily for me, I did glance into the drain and saw it was filled with toilet paper.

Now, you may not be familiar with courtyard drains but I can assure you they are not meant to be filled with toilet paper. On closer inspection we discovered that there were other things in the drain, which should not have been there… things which I thought I had flushed away a while ago. The forecast for the next day was 32 degrees celsius and, considering our drain was literally backed up with shit, I think I was right to panic that it was going to smell pretty bad.

And so, instead of enjoying bowls of ice-cream in front of the telly, Stefan and I found ourselves donning gardening gloves and cleaning out old faeces from our drain. The next morning, in temperatures akin to a summer holiday in Greece, we and the plumber, endured a stench worse than the bubonic plague when she lifted our manhole to sort out the blockage. That reminds me, I need to pay her for the pleasure.

I didn’t think the week could get worse than that to be honest, but life always has a way of showing me just how wrong I can be and so it did.

Chatsworth House, viewed from amongst the bushes

On Saturday, I arrived at Chatsworth House bright and early, slathered in Factor 50 and SUPER excited to host five Marty Moose drawing workshops at their family festival. Unfortunately, my excitement leaked away like a deflating balloon animal when I discovered that my first day of events were taking place in the potting shed—a location so obscure that most visitors didn't know it existed. At least I’m assuming that’s the reason barely anyone came and I was left sat in an empty room listening to everyone having fun at a circus. Literally, a circus.

On day two, I faced even stiffer competition, as both my workshops had been scheduled to coincide with a live, all-singing, all-dancing performance of The Gruffalo.

Stefan did several laps of the Chatsworth gardens, handing out free stickers and bookmarks in an attempt to lure people away from a woman blowing giant bubbles and a man on stilts making balloon animals. Against all odds, it worked, and I managed to fill the morning event. We all had a great time.

By Sunday afternoon however, as I found myself sat in an empty marquee, watching the man on stilts get mobbed, I was starting to feel a little beaten and I wondered at what point I’d become less appealing than a balloon giraffe. But my mood lifted considerably when, later that day, I received an unexpected email from someone who had taken the trouble to come and see me. They have no idea what this email meant to me. ❤️

The picture of Marty and Nibbles, drawn by Evelyn.

Monday was mostly spent trying to locate a compost bin I’d ordered online. It promised delivery within two days, but two weeks later and it had yet to materialise in physical reality.

A good portion of the day was also devoted to trying to persuade the pole of my new parasol to fit through the hole in my garden table. Turns out, it doesn’t fit.

Tuesday I was home solo with Ziggy and, as I had a mountain of work to get through, I decided to walk him early before the temperatures rose. But Ziggy didn’t want to be walked. Ziggy wanted to sit down on the pavement and refuse to move. Ziggy wanted to go back home and eventually I relented. And then Ziggy had lots of energy because he hadn’t been walked. And then Ziggy tormented me all day and I got literally nothing done despite having two deadlines next week. Stress levels started to rise.

Wednesday was a repeat of Tuesday. Stress levels hit maximum at 5pm when I took my eye off Ziggy for ONE SECOND to refill a fountain pen and he chewed through the strap of my bag and ate a good portion of my hat. After crying in the kitchen, I realised maybe I needed some support so I did what any sane adhd perimenopausal woman would do: I put Ziggy in the car, took him to my friends house and released him into their secure garden where he zoomed around with their dog, whilst I drank a mojito straight from the can. Then I drank another. I left feeling hopeful that Thursday would be better.

It was not.

My hat.

On Thursday my iMac died. I spent 5 hours intermittently on the phone to Apple trying to resuscitate it but, at 6.04pm, it was officially declared deceased.

Thursday ended with me having to spend £2,749 on a new one.

In an ADHD frustrated tantrum which boiled over too quick for me to catch it, I impulsively threw my Wacom pen at the wall whilst on hold to the Apple Sales team. OBVIOUSLY it broke and so then I had to spend £65 on a new one. The new iMac won’t be delivered for a week so I will muddle through using my laptop and (hopefully) get some work done over the weekend.

The weekend, which I had intended to spend assembling a compost bin that still hasn't arrived and walking a dog who still refuses to be walked.

Is it just me, Powells? Am I cursed?! Or is this just life? Please, answers in the comments.

Regardless, I am checking out. I’ve had enough! I am going to see my illustrator friend Penny Neville-Lee this afternoon to drink tea in her garden and if Friday even thinks about throwing some shit at me I will not be held responsible for my actions.

Until then, you might be interested to know the birds in my garden are: Jackdaws, Wrens, Blackbirds, Goldfinches, Greenfinches and, last but not least, the common wood-pigeon

Yours,

Powell x

P.S. A round-up of what I’ve miraculously managed to draw this week will be sent over the weekend. Subscribe so you don’t miss it.

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Please let me know in the comments how terrible your week has been so I don’t feel so alone.