NOT THE BEST DAY I'VE EVER HAD
I don't know what I have done to upset the Good Lord above lately, but life has not been going as swimmingly as it used to. I have had the world's longest lasting virus, coming round to re-visit at least four times now and please don't tell me to go to the doctors. I did. No antibiotics given any more, unless, I suspect you are at death's door and it probably be too late then anyway, so what the heck. The doctor directed me to the pharmacist for advice as to what I might take to alleviate my symptoms. Hey, nice work. I want her job. all those years of training and all you have to do is direct the medical traffic. Nice little earner.
Yes, I can see I'm digressing. So that's the virus and then there is our house move - or non-move I should say. Here we sit among all our packed up worldly goods and chattels whilst the people living in our new house make up their minds as to whether they're gonna buy another house or what. At least, that's this week's thinking on their part. Who knows - I don't think even they know what they think and we don't. We just quietly climb the walls and metaphorically swing from the chandeliers. Now the sun is shining and spring is here and I am still wrapped up in winter woollies as all my lighter clothes are packed, ready to go. This could be the case for some time to come!!
So, life is not all beer and skittles just now. However, there is still the latest book to be written and as I am only two thirds of the way through, the writerly nose has had to be re-attached to the writerly grindstone, in spite of much coughing, spluttering and nose-blowing going on.
Spouse, in his wisdom, decided a day out would be in order, to lift me out of my fit of the blues which had descended due to my incarceration. (No doubt you have noticed that already, dear reader. I am not my usual sunny self.) 'Let's go to Thirsk,' says he 'have a good lunch and do some shopping. Nice bit of retail therapy, dear to every woman's heart.' I readily fell in with this suggestion and brightened up immediately.
The day dawned, quite bright and sunny, if a bit cool still, but it was only March. We tootled into Scarborough and did our business at the bank and then partook of a hot coffee at a well-known coffee chain, whilst I made some notes for the next day's scenes in the book. Inspiration had struck and I needed to stay on its tail.
Soon we were heading back to the car park, ready for our adventure to Thirsk. 'How long will it take us?' I innocently enquired. 'Ooh, about forty minutes,' quoth spouse and headed off out of the town. Well, all I can say is, if I have no sense of direction, which I readily admit to, spouse has not one iota of timescale. Admittedly at one point he turned off the main route and opted for the 'country route' - winding country lanes, made sodden by the continually pouring rain. Did I mention that? No I don't think I did. We left sunny Scarborough in the morning and heading out to York and Thirsk, the rain started and then never stopped for the rest of the day.
So, there we were, hiking a round the back roads of North Yorkshire in filthy weather, adding at least another hour to our journey time. Lunchtime came and went and with it my appetite for my lunch and this expedition. Hurrah, eventually, we reached Thirsk, drove around the market square and the town and headed off back to our coastal domain, this time taking the direct route that got us home in an hour. I could have been brave and trudged around Thirsk in the rain, but just getting over flu, viruses and the like, didn't fancy putting myself up there for another dose of something. so I chickened out and watched the raindrops for in-car entertainment.
Well, that was a fun day out wasn't it? And it wasn't over yet. To make up for the lack of lunch, we decided on an Indian takeaway treat. Dinner plates and red wine were set to warm and the table laid with lick-smacking anticipation. The order was placed and spouse departed to fetch our supper. We even had little starters - small bundles of joy in the form of onion bahjees, followed in my case by a Chicken Jalfreize and Rice. Spouse had the house special, which was something unpronounceable but tasted delicious. My Jafreize however, was completely inedible - tasting very badly of burnt garlic and burnt chicken.
This was not turning out to be the best day ever. And to put the icing on the cake, I paid a visit to our downstairs cloakroom late evening, only to find the greenest of green and fattest of fat slugs happily curled up on the edge of the handbasin. Normally, slugs are the most revolting of creatures and why the Good Lord in his wisdom created them is quite beyond me. Now, you may say it was the read wine lending a certain glow to the proceedings, but I thought he was just the cutest little slug I had ever seen. He seemed to be smiling to himself in contentment at the billet he had found for himself.
Spouse promptly put the little chap outside where he belonged, leaving me to ask the question once more - dear Lord above, what did I do so wrong lately and worse still, what is waiting around the corner to happen next????? One day at a time, maybe it can only get better ....... can't it?
I have had a flu virus for the third time around this winter. I am usually as fit as a butcher's dog, but I think in moving back to North Yorkshire I must be encountering the English bugs and they seem to be a lot fiestier than the Scots ones. However, having given my immune system a good talking to, it has belatedly sprung into action and I am on the mend, I am still a little feeble in body but there is nothing wrong with the grey matter now, though this was not always the case when I was in grip of the dreaded lurghi.
I have no desire to fall into the grips of illness again any time soon, but I seem to remember that some of the side effects were interesting. I am putting it down to the effects of medication. So, one afternoon, as i lay upon my sickbed, I heard a clatter going on downstairs in the kitchen. 'Now that's an interesting noise,' thought I, half-wakeful, half-not. The clatter continued for a few minutes and then I identified the noise - it was horses hooves. I surmised that spouse had bought a horse into the kitchen. 'Mmm, interesting,' I thought. 'Why has he bought a horse into the kitchen?' A reasonable question. I think I drifted off to sleep sometime after that, but with hindsight, what fascinates me the most is that I just accepted that spouse WOULD bring a horse into the kitchen. Well, he would wouldn't he, were he so minded? I discovered later that the noises I heard was the sound of the wheelie-bin being dragged to the front of the house, ready for the refuse collectors the following morning.
I can hear him expostulating at this, the moment he reads it, but believe me, dear reader, anything is possible. The tales I could tell ... but not here. I will say, what a good nurse he was and he looked after me very well, in my lucid moments and my less lucid, (hearing horses in the kitchen). I wonder if I was thinking of D H Lawrence's 'Women In Love'? Didn't he have a load of horses galloping along the beach, or something?
And then there was the news all about Donald Trump and his thirty eight million dollar tax bill. I heard it on BBC Radio 4's news programme. I remember marvelling that anyone had paid that much over just in tax and then I fell asleep and, dear reader, as you will know, I have a past track record with Donald Trump. Last time he tried to take a jereboam of champagne off me; I was blowed if he was going to wrestle thirty eight mill off me this time.
In my dreams, limpets on rocks have nothing on me. I got my sticky mitts on thirty eight million and I was off. I can see the dollar bills now, safely tucked into my Santa sack as I sped off down the road, legs pumping like a Roadrunner bird. Strangely, Donald was not chasing after me. Good to tell this was the land of dreams.
It was worth suffering the high temperature and all the unpleasant side-effects that go with it, (I will not bore you, you can imagine). I had a blast with that thirty eight million. I went around the world distributing largessse, faster than Jules Verne ever did. All my favourite charities and a lot more besides, got some of the dibs - Hearing Dogs for Deaf People, Guide Dogs for the Blind, The Salvation Army, The Red Cross, The Lifeboats and dear to my heart, Mary's Meals got funding for all the countries they work in across the world.
In my dreams, in my dreams. I know I was depriving the United States Inland Revenue Service of a serious amount of dosh that I'm sure a great many Americans would have benefitted from, but what a chance I had and if it came my way again, I would take it. So, thank you D J Trump for letting me explore my dreams like that. I was sorry to wake up and find it was only a dream, but one day ... one day ... a gal can have her dreams and who knows .....
DON'T LET HIM IN THE KITCHEN
Spouse is in the doghouse. He's been meddling again. You may recognise this malady or you may not. Maybe it is just one of my many idiosyncrasies, but I have my favourite pieces of kitchen equipment - certain knives, a treasured potato peeler and especially dear to my little heart, is my vegetable peeler. I know, I can hear you dear reader, 'get a life gal'. I have a life and my kitchen toys are a big part of it.
So what has my spouse done to put himself in Maison Chien this time? He has meddled, tinkered, could not leave-well-alone. In spite of being asked several times never, ever to attempt to clean up my vegetable peeler .... Well, need I say more? Proudly he holds it up for my inspection, as pleased as a dog with two tails, which he may well be shortly, albeit tinned. A gleaming vegetable peeler it may be, but does it still peel? No, it most certainly does not. The blade is bent.
Why, oh why, did he have to meddle? I repeat, why could he not leave well alone? He has man-sheds. Now, do I go and interfere with his favourite tools and bits of machinery? No, I do not. They are his and I keep a respectful distance.
History is written by the victors and here we come to the Old Testament. (Stay with me, we're getting there.) No doubt the Good Book was written by a bunch of men; why else is poor Eve the one to get the blame for meddling with the Tree of Knowledge? I bet it was Adam all along - he was the one that could not resist meddling even though he had been told not to.
My vegetable peeler has allegedly been bent back into shape and has been pronounced as good as new by spouse. Well, If it doesn't work next time I come to use it it may not be the only thing in our house that will require re-arranging ... and I'LL be writing that version of the family history .....
THE ART OF LOLLING
Why is it just as the grey light of dawn filters through my bedroom curtains, I find the most cosy and comfortable nook in my bed that I have had for the entire night? This is not just a one-off, it happens with monotonous regularity and I've no doubt it does to your good selves too, dear reader. Warm, comfortable and cosy, deep in the arms of Morpheus and then the bloomin' alarm goes off. Is there some Law in the workings of the universe that I know not of, whereby the closer one is to having to rise and shine, the deeper and more delightful becomes one's slumber? A little akin to getting too near the edge of a black hole and falling in.
After the alarm goes off the pull of sleep is almost overwhelming. I lie and loll, unable to motivate myself to move. This brings me to the point of this blog, (yes, I do get there eventually). I am not one of nature's lollers - a loller being a person who enjoys just lolling about the place. I have a dear friend whose whole raison d'etre is lolling. She would be a world champion, an Olympian, if lolling was eligible for entry into these competitions. She adores lolling and has to be forcibly ejected from her slumbers as the "busy old fool, unruly sun" moves into her sphere.
She is a dear friend. Opposites obviously attract in our case. Were we to be occupying hammocks sited on golden sands, deep azure blue sea lapping nearby and a cool breeze gently swaying the palm trees, she would be in heaven. I, however, would probably be in hell. Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration but I would not be a happy bunny - more than a little damp due to the excess heat, bored out of my skull with lolling and probably suffering from motion sickness.
And yet look at our ape relatives. They are up in the trees, gathering branches about them for a comfy bed for the night and they'll loll away happily and through the day too when they fancy. Lions loll in the heat of the day, leopards, too, up in the trees; you get my general drift. I suppose the best loll of all would be hibernation, but that's a step too far I think, even for my friend.
So how did my DNA get so over-modified and my lolling gene get left behind? Except for my early morning somnolence I am an 'up and at 'em' kind of gal. Spouse has come to dread the phrase 'I've been thinking...' as this usually heralds the announcement of a new project which will not involve any kind of lolling.
I do not know the answer to the the lolling question, but sometimes I cast an envious glance at my lolling friend and her cohorts - spread-eagled on sun-loungers, prostrate upon the sofa, or snoozing by a roaring fire. It looks inviting and they seem to have it off to a fine art.
Maybe I need to go back to basics and re-discover my roots. That's it! Roots. I'm off to the forest and maybe a little tree climbing is on the agenda. A whole new sport opens out for me - tree lolling. It could catch on. I'll see you at the Olympics.