Good morning my dear reader and welcome to a rainy Saturday in North Yorkshire. I hope I find you well and in good heart. All is serene here at Comb Towers - well, I say that but, although I have spent the week appearing to glide along like a graceful swan, in reality, beneath my serene exterior I have been paddling furiously just to keep up with life. I have been out and about placing my books for sale and trying to find new outlets. All well and good, but sometimes keeping all the balls in the air at home and on the novel writing front as well as marketing, gives me a little wobble from time to time. However, on the plus side, I have not left our picnic lunch behind this week, as has happened to me before, so three cheers and a big hurrah for that.
Some of the time, dear reader, I can be organised, but not all of the time. Sometimes, my scatty head takes over and then the wheels can come off the bus big time - especially when it involves food ... and Spouse. This is how it went a few year ago ... Our house sale in Scotland was dragging on and anxious to relocate to England, we bought a little house to renovate in Filey on the east coast of North Yorkshire. We had done quite a lot of work to it and then the plumber and electrician wanted to move in and take the place to bits for rewiring and replumbling all round. So, we decided to leave them to it and decamp back to Scotland for a couple of weeks and do some more packing up at that end. It was a good six hour journey to our old homestead and we usually stopped for a picnic lunch. On this occasion I had packed a lovely picnic of home-cooked chicken and stuffing rolls and a flask of tea.
We pulled into our favourite quiet layby and I went to get the picnic from the back of the car. Oh, my my, dear reader, there was no such thing. To my dismay I realised they must still be in the Filey kitchen. Spouse had got out of the car to stretch his legs and was walking back towards me, rubbing his hands and smiling in anticipation of his lunch. Well ... you can imagine, dear reader, the utter disappointment on his face when he was told the bad news. He had to make do with a cup of tea in a cardboard cup and a very soggy sandwich at a roadside chuck wagon. Safe to say I was not top of his favourite people list that day.
And as we drove along I wondered about those chicken rolls ... I really didn't want them sitting there for two weeks. They would be moving about with their own livestock by the time we returned. So, I telephoned my near neighbour, Jasmine and asked her to remove them to the bin. Poor Spouse's face as he listened in to this conversation - a picture of sadness as he imagined his favourite sandwiches going west. Only Jasmine didn't put them in the bin. The rolls were daisy fresh and she took them home for her and her husband's lunch. She told me later that they were delicious! I didn't pass this information on to Spouse; bit like rubbing salt into the wound I thought.
And then I did it again! Only sausage sandwiches this time - also one of Spouse's favourites and a rare treat. Only it wasn't, as I had left them behind. You know that look of sheer, utter disbelief someone can throw at you when you have been the most complete numpty ever - yep, I got a lot of those that day. Another trip, England to Scotland and another day of no decent lunch. I have no idea, my dear reader, how I managed it again, but I did. You have no idea of that horrible, sinking feeling, when you discover there is not even a crumb to drool over. A bit like Pooh discovering all his honey jars are empty. And Jasmine and husband enjoyed them again! But this week I triumphed. I wrote myself notes in very large letters and even left one by the front door to make it as idiot proof as I could and it worked. Peace and harmony has reigned and all is well in our world. Let's hope it stays that way!
Now you may wonder why I need to mention old slippers. I know, not the most noteworthy of subjects, but in some ways it is. I have mentioned many times that Spouse being a good and true Yorkshireman is much averse to parting with any of his clothes, no matter how dilapidated they may become. How often has the phrase echoed around Comb Towers, 'There's plenty of wear left in that/them yet.' And so it is the case with his slippers. They become downtrodden and develop holes, but still he fondly hangs on to them. However, last week and miracle of miracles, he actually enquired if there were any NEW slippers knocking around the house anywhere. I checked the sky ... no, it was not about to fall. That's O.K. then. 'New slippers are available', says I. 'Does that mean you are actually going to part with an old pair?' 'Mmm, think so,' says Spouse. Before he could change his mind I went to his wardrobe and fetched them downstairs. 'I only said "think so." I'm still mulling it over,' says he. Holy Mother, what does it take? And you know what it takes, dear reader. And so I did it. It takes a wife to go old-slipper stealing and throw them in the bin and then there's no "mulling" about it. Spouse is still going about muttering and mourning the loss of his old footwear, but I rejoice. No more sporting the down at heel look. A belated welcome to 2021 Spouse. Now ... I only need to persuade him to a new jacket and he might, just might, look slightly better dressed than the local tramp.