Chopped quinces are simmering away. Two saucepans of them. Jelly-making in progress. The quince season is short.
I sweep the floor. It needs washing. So I wash it. This means I have to stay off the floor until it dries.
But why waste the water? I proceed to wash the tiles at the front of the house. Then I nip up to the computer, while it all dries.
An aroma drifts upstairs. One of the quince saucepans has boiled dry. Very convincingly, in fact. The aroma has permeated the house. Out go all those carefully chopped quinces, now all black and ruined. The bottom of the saucepan is covered in burnt quince remnants, and it needs a lot of serious scrubbing with steel wool.
It all seems to be part of a pattern. An ineradicable pattern. In which I make decisions which lead to consequences ranging between not very good and disasters of varying import. How did I do this to myself? By now I ought to be able to sort things out. But I feel unable at this stage to remake myself and my life. Too hard, too late, too old, too alone. Too entrapped in the mire.
Weirdly, little screws of unknown origin keep appearing in the house. Where are they from, what are they for, what do they do? I wish I knew. Am I screwing up, or is life just unravelling?
Never mind. I went out and bought more jars, and more quinces. These are now dripping through the jelly bags, and perhaps the morrow will see another completed batch of quince jelly, all clear, unsullied, and flavoursome.
So I hope.