My time-to-new-arrival clock (perl script) currently says "11 weeks, 0 days, 15 hours, 09 minutes, 46 seconds" (estimated.) I really want a wall mounted countdown clock like Matthew Perry has in Studio 60 but they don't seem to sell them at Mamas & Papas.
It seems prudent to spend at least some of these eleven weeks preparing, and getting things sorted.
This has led to all kinds of exciting tasks, like sorting the mountain of paperwork that we've accumilated so we don't immediately lose something like the baby's birth certificate as it get misfiled between the piles of fast food fliers and junk mail that come through our front door. Fear my organisational skills - by looking in the file cabinet I now have at my fingertips insurance documents, car registration details, our.wedding certificate, mortage details and any bill from the last few years. I also have at my fingertips, at a moments notice, details of Erena's first flight here, Beth and Adam's (easterbunny & aca's) wedding invite, a card from people at Profero wishing me well in my finals, a poster (the poster) written by Mike and Simon (mlr/cosmic spanner and muttley/deflatermouse) while they were campaigning to run our hall newsletter in our first year at university, and pictures of a camping trip I took when I was twelve. You know, just incase there's an emergancy and I need to reach that stuff quickly.
The garden also needs some attention. Last weekend I decided I was going to powerwash our patio and clean the chairs before winter. I got as far as removing half of the powerwasher from our garden shed before I noticed that I was suddenly surrounded by a buzzing cloud of wasps eminating from an hitherto unnoticed nest contained within. It was like the Eddie Izzard sketch "covered in bees!", but with things even more likely to sting you. I backed away slowly trying to make eye contact (which, if you've ever tried with a homogenous swarm of creatures with multifaceted eyes, is remakably hard to do) and snuck back in the midst of the night with a can of Raid while they were all tucked up in their little wasp beds. The final score: Wasps: 0, Raid: 1.
Our back garden is seperated from the neighbors by our gracefully declining fence, a flimsy barrier that's all that keeps their gourgeous six-month old border collie from overly excitedly chasing our cats around our house after they repeatedly taunt her. For all our sakes, we need to replace it before another London tornado springs up or a squirrel sneezes too near it and blows it down. After not proving particularly useful at helping my brother erect his new fence earlier this year, we've decided to get some people in. I'm happy to trade cash and cups of tea for not having to break up concrete and cart it away, and not end up with what we'd have to dub the leaning fence of Walthamstow.
I've also been busy sorting out the spare room, or as we're now calling it, the baby's room. Last weekend I put up a new rail in the wardrobe, which gave me a chance to play with powertools. It was a relativly straight forward process that only involved bending one drill bit irrevokably out of service. Next week, despite the fact that I didn't help him move house recently and that he spent all last weekend moving our other friends, Simon (muttley/deflatermous) has volunteered to come round help me move furnature around a bit till we've got room to assemble the crib. I've decided that we should dub him the Muscles from Islington (though, face it, Jan Claud Van Damme would have never got as far with that nickname.)
And that's the state of play in the Fowler-Langley household at the moment. Next week on the life of Mark: Battles with the fridge-freezer (no, no...it's not going "Zoooooool", but there might be a new ice-age developing in there...)