"And she just thought she'd fit in another class!" mused Himself. He was talking about me, of course, but we were both pretending he wasn't. "As if there isn't already enough in her day. Carrots?".
"Fridge," I said. "I'll do the celery".
He started scraping. "What's it called again?"
"Flora Bowley's Bloom True. And I expect", I added carefully, "she didn't realise when she booked it that there'd be so much else happening by the time it started. What with not being clairvoyant an' all." The knife was staccato on the chopping board, and a faint coolness hung in the air. The boiler in the corner, sensitive at the best of times, turned itself on hastily.
"Still," he continued thoughtfully, "it certainly seems to be making her happy. I'm sure I've heard her ..." he paused, "... singing." The boiler and I waited for the adverb. Tunelessly was the usual favourite. And accurate. "It's lovely." he said. "I hope she carries on enjoying this class." The boiler spluttered first, though I caught up fast. Himself smiled. "In fact, I could take over here if she'd like to squeeze in another burst of that blooming painting before tea."
She did. The boiler hummed along companionably for layering, part 2. I think there's only about another ten layers to go.
Sometimes, often, life Himself is just blooming, well, marvellous. :)
