Turns out, they didn't restart it properly and the pilot light was out. It took me a small temper tantrum and a little bit of research to try and figure out what the instructions for lighting the bloody thing actually meant. Then I followed the instructions and got the heat working again.
I must have done a pretty decent job at it, too, as the heat was still on this morning, and the house hadn't blown up yet. That's always a good sign.
Anyway, if I'm not making much sense, that's why. I was up late, stressed and angry and now I'm thoroughly exhausted.
Also, almost forty is too damned old to be learning how to get a furnace pilot light lit. I feel like I'm failing at this whole adulting thing.
Speaking of failing, I've been doing it a lot of late. I've dropped a whole lot of balls that I should be juggling. Again.
I need to get back to my French lessons, but I've not managed to do that in weeks and weeks. Part of it was, of course, the executive dysfunction that comes with my bouts of depression. I was querying, and querying is a depressing process. It was also part of the reason why I struggled to write in the period while I queried.
The painting I wanted finished at the end of last year is still not done. It was supposed to be restarted last Sunday. That didn't happen.
I have two books I need to read - one by Sunday - that I haven't even touched yet.
In fact, the only thing that I've managed to do with any efficiency is, rather ironically given how much I struggled with it just a fortnight ago, is write. I've reached ten thousand words on The New Project and I'm liking where this story is headed and how it's heading there. I don't think it'll be a full novel, probably a novelette, though who knows. I am, it seems, wholly incapable of keeping it short.
As this very blog post proves.
Right, I've blathered on enough. I need to get writing. Or maybe I'll attempt the next French lesson. Or something. I have to go, is what I'm saying.
Have yourselves a wonderful day.