Investigating the septic tank . . . not one of them.
I rarely go to hairdressers, partly because of the financial outlay but also I find the whole slightly forced chat thing a bit odd, but after noting that I hadn't been for about three months and the mop was beginning to look more than mangey I thought it was time. And it would be nice - I could go to choir practice not covered in earth or paint as usual, and stun people (mildly) with sleek and dressed hair.
The hair do done, I returned home and only got a bit covered in paint, stayed well away from the garden, and despite a windy dog walk it was all looking good. Then I remembered the guy was coming to do a revision on our reed bed system so that all would be in shape for when the more scary SPANC (no idea what it stands for) people come to check the system. He said he'd be at the house for 5.00, which became 6.00 pm. I thought he'd just turn up with hoses and check it all himself but I the reality was me finding a hose and helping out. Then I admitted that we had lost a broom head in the post de relevage (big buried blue plastic container, and of course we had to get it out - which was messy - and then we had to dig out a load of soil and stones that had somehow got into the inspection chamber - damned moles, I reckon.
Suffice to say I was by then as usual covered in soil and unmentionable other stuff . . . and the hair do had come rather undone from its grips and things. It was too late to go to choir, but the guy did help me fill in a load of complex forms that had been sent from the aforementioned Small Pink Angry Newts Corporation, so it was all worth it.
Here's the hair arrangement which had only in the end been appreciated by me, the dog and perhaps the bloke from Aquataris.
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