We get all sorts of people in the shop.
When I am working a late shift, it's remarkable to see the number of customers who dash in for last-minute emergency beer or wine before we shut for the night. On sunny afternoons we get quite a few people calling in for booze for impromptu barbecues on their way home from work. There are one or two who come in for small bottles of cheap vodka, and who I suspect are not going anywhere to drink it.
The one who stands out for me this week though, is the Drunk Socks Man.
He came in for the first time mid-afternoon, buying a four-pack of chilled cans of cider. Fair enough. It was a sunny afternoon, and sitting under a tree with a cold cider would be very pleasant.
Two hours later he came back and bought another four-pack. Ah. Maybe he has some mates there too, and they're all enjoying a cold drink together.
Another two hours passed. By this time I was on my own in the shop. He reappeared, this time drunk. Very, very drunk.
"Hello my petal!" he said cheerfully. I said hello back, ignoring the over-familiarity. Well, you have to sometimes.
He selected a single bottle of beer and brought it up to the counter, then dug into a pocket for cash. I told him how much it cost, and he squinted at the handful of change, old receipts and oddments he was waving about in front of me.
"Have I got enough there, darling?" he asked. I told him no, he didn't.
"Well can you do me a deal then? Can I have it for *rapid counting of the coins he held* £1.28?"
I said no sorry, we wouldn't do that.
"What have you got that's cheaper, then?"
By now, I had realised just how drunk he was, and was beginning to wonder how I was going to get him out of the shop if he got stroppy when he discovered that I wasn't going to sell him any more drink. Cunningly taking the bottle of beer back to the fridge on the pretext of looking for something cheaper, I was able to convince him that we didn't sell anything alcoholic that he could afford just then.
"How about if I give you a cuddle? Can I have a deal then?"
Oh fantastic. The "drunk bloke is irresistible to women" stage has been reached. I declined the cuddle and got back behind the counter, wondering how much longer this was going to continue. He stood there, swaying a bit, then had an idea.
"What if I give you my socks?"
"What?"
"Look. Here. You can have my socks." He tried to hand me a pair of balled-up socks which he pulled from another pocket.
I declined politely.
After a few minutes of loudly telling the next customer who came in how terrible it is to be an alcoholic - the customer agreed politely whilst paying for his diesel - the drunk left, staggering over to the pub. He did tell me "I'm always around if you need me, darling," before he left. How reassuring.
I waited with some interest, and a little anxiety in case he came back to the shop. A police van then drove onto the forecourt and parked up, I waited for the police driver to come in and buy sweeties. They're buggers for sweeties, police. However, the driver simply stayed in his van.
The drunk left the pub very soon afterwards, and started making his way up the road towards town. The police van immediately pulled out into the main road, the driver got out and spoke to the drunk. I watched, interested, as they had a long chat, the drunk smoking a cigarette. A short time later a police car arrived, and took the drunk away.
You don't get that in the Civil Service.
Showing posts with label shopping like an idiot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping like an idiot. Show all posts
Saturday, 23 May 2015
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Dogs, Mice, People
This week I have mostly been making some biggish life decisions. Well, one decision. The last few weeks have been sad and stressful and strange, and I know that's not a good time to decide stuff which may impact on your future. Best to wait until things are more settled and less emotional. Despite knowing that, though, I did it anyway.
About 18 months ago I found a part time job as a cook at the care home in our village. Only for a few hours a week, and in the early evenings, so it fitted handily around other stuff I do. Occasionally they asked me to come and cook lunch on the days when the full-time cooks were away, which I really enjoyed, as it is "proper" cooking. Lots of home-made soups, cakes, puddings and meat and vegetable main courses.
It was all useful professional catering experience in a comparatively safe environment, as the menu is planned days in advance and there aren't huge numbers of people to feed. The scope for failure is limited to service being a few minutes late if (for example) you forgot to make gravy. Getting positive feedback from the residents is lovely, and knowing that my apple cake, or cottage pie, or pea and ham soup has made them enjoy their day a bit more than they might have otherwise is a great feeling.
The experience we've had with father in law WithaY living in residential accommodation has really brought it home to me how important the food is in someone's day. Sometimes lunch is a really big deal.
During the time I worked there, they built the huge new nursing home behind the old house. This was the place we moved Mr WithaY's dad to in May this year, and where he was able to enjoy the views, the top-of-the-range accommodation - he loved the hydro bath - and the interesting and well-made food. I would say that, of course, but the team of chefs and cooks there are genuinely very good, and the quality of the food is brilliant.
Anyhoo, as a result of father in law's death, it now makes me very sad to go to work. Walking up the drive, looking at his old home, it's a forcible reminder which means I go into work with a heavy heart. I know it will pass, as everything does, but even so.
This is in itself not really enough of a reason to quit, but there have been a few other issues. My upcoming surgery will mean I will have to take at least 3 months off work, which will be a nuisance. The catering business is ramping up for Christmas, and a lot of the bookings are on days when I would be working at the care home.
Add to this the feeling I now have that the time I am at work is impinging on my life annoyingly - yes, it's only a few hours, but if Mr WithaY has been out all day, he arrives home almost exactly as I leave for work, and I value the "cup of tea and how was your day?" ritual we have - so I thought I'd hand in my notice.
If nothing else, it's a good incentive to make sure the Christmas fêtes and bazaars we are taking part in with the catering company are a success.
It's surprising how easy it was to give notice. I think over the last few years I have got better at major change. Leaving the MoD, then the Civil Service, starting a small business, learning to work in an entirely different profession, managing my time when I have so much more of it free than I have ever done in my life. It's all good.
I think I'm going to find a course at the local college and learn something new this winter. When we first moved here I went to Frome college and did an evening course in stained glass making, which was great fun. I never managed anything really huge, like a window, but I made some nice smaller pieces for the house and for friends and family, and I still like looking at them and thinking "I did that."
Time to do something new. I rather fancy learning how to make hats.
In other news, has anyone else been driven to FURY by those awful mini adverts that Channel 4 are showing around the Simpsons? They're for some shop or other, I can't remember who, and feature a variety of pretend families. The plot runs thus:
Child (who looks at least 25, and who is seen lying on the sofa, or on their bed with a laptop) screams the word "Mum" or "Dad" continuously for the length of the snippet. This in itself is fucking irritating.
Parent (dopey looking simpering doormat) then appears at the door of the room, summoned by the bellowing slightly younger person.
Child then demands a new item of clothing, presumably seen on a website on their laptop. No use of the word "please" is made. Not once.
Parent agrees. WITH A SMILE.
NOTHING about those adverts makes me want to use the product they are advertising. And whilst I understand the concept of targeted adverts - if you don't understand it, you're not the target market - I genuinely struggle to see who their target market is. Is it the parents? If so, portraying them as spineless walking wallets at the beck and call of their appalling offspring seems like a peculiar way to get them to buy into the concept.
If it's the children, why are they shown as being so old? My reaction to the bloody things (and this may be the point of course, some smart advertising concept person has come up with a way to make people sit up and take notice, even if it's only in fury) is to ask:
"Why doesn't that mother give that squawking great oaf of a son a clip around the ear for being such a bone idle, demanding, obnoxious bastard, instead of saying "Oh alright then..." with a simpering smile when he bellows at her and then orders her to get him new trainers?"
Gah.
The obvious answer is to stop watching TV, of course.
What else has been going on? Well, Mr WithaY and I went to the excellent Frome Super Market on Sunday. This is a monthly event held in the town centre, with all sorts of stalls selling foods, coffee, sausages inna bun, arty crafty stuff, dog treats, wooden doorstops, bunting and enamel baths. It's eclectic.
I bought some chocolate moulds from the organic Real Chocolate stall - most of what is sold is either Organic, Artisan or Hand Crafted. Frome is a bit like that - and have been amusing myself making chocolate mice for the upcoming Christmas fairs. Some have been more successful than others.
I made a batch of my delicious Chinese Style Plum Sauce, and am currently working on labelling that is more interesting and gift-friendly than my current style. Unfortunately my handwriting is readable but dull, so hand-written labels might be off the agenda. I might ask Mr WithaY to write them, as he can do gorgeous calligraphy, but that would take a lot of time, and time is money. Hark at me. That's a small business person right there.
I've also made a batch of mincemeat, and am planning to make some mini mince pies to take as free samples, in the hope that it will encourage people to buy the mincemeat. And if not, at least they'll know we make lovely mince pies if they're thinking of having a Christmas party catered.
Oh, I bought a recipe book for treats for dogs too. I know, via certain dog owners of my acquaintance, that people like to buy their dogs treats, and so I am going to make some festive dog biscuits and see if they sell. I will ensure they are clearly labelled FOR DOGS even though they will be safe for human consumption. The environmental health are funny about stuff like that.
Oh, and I bought a dog bed cover for Hester, from a company called Tuffies. It arrived before they said it would, it fits perfectly, and the dog loves it.
So well done Tuffies, and if you'd like to send me a free dog bed in return for all this advertising, I'd like a large one in flame red please. Ta.
About 18 months ago I found a part time job as a cook at the care home in our village. Only for a few hours a week, and in the early evenings, so it fitted handily around other stuff I do. Occasionally they asked me to come and cook lunch on the days when the full-time cooks were away, which I really enjoyed, as it is "proper" cooking. Lots of home-made soups, cakes, puddings and meat and vegetable main courses.
It was all useful professional catering experience in a comparatively safe environment, as the menu is planned days in advance and there aren't huge numbers of people to feed. The scope for failure is limited to service being a few minutes late if (for example) you forgot to make gravy. Getting positive feedback from the residents is lovely, and knowing that my apple cake, or cottage pie, or pea and ham soup has made them enjoy their day a bit more than they might have otherwise is a great feeling.
The experience we've had with father in law WithaY living in residential accommodation has really brought it home to me how important the food is in someone's day. Sometimes lunch is a really big deal.
During the time I worked there, they built the huge new nursing home behind the old house. This was the place we moved Mr WithaY's dad to in May this year, and where he was able to enjoy the views, the top-of-the-range accommodation - he loved the hydro bath - and the interesting and well-made food. I would say that, of course, but the team of chefs and cooks there are genuinely very good, and the quality of the food is brilliant.
Anyhoo, as a result of father in law's death, it now makes me very sad to go to work. Walking up the drive, looking at his old home, it's a forcible reminder which means I go into work with a heavy heart. I know it will pass, as everything does, but even so.
This is in itself not really enough of a reason to quit, but there have been a few other issues. My upcoming surgery will mean I will have to take at least 3 months off work, which will be a nuisance. The catering business is ramping up for Christmas, and a lot of the bookings are on days when I would be working at the care home.
Add to this the feeling I now have that the time I am at work is impinging on my life annoyingly - yes, it's only a few hours, but if Mr WithaY has been out all day, he arrives home almost exactly as I leave for work, and I value the "cup of tea and how was your day?" ritual we have - so I thought I'd hand in my notice.
If nothing else, it's a good incentive to make sure the Christmas fêtes and bazaars we are taking part in with the catering company are a success.
It's surprising how easy it was to give notice. I think over the last few years I have got better at major change. Leaving the MoD, then the Civil Service, starting a small business, learning to work in an entirely different profession, managing my time when I have so much more of it free than I have ever done in my life. It's all good.
I think I'm going to find a course at the local college and learn something new this winter. When we first moved here I went to Frome college and did an evening course in stained glass making, which was great fun. I never managed anything really huge, like a window, but I made some nice smaller pieces for the house and for friends and family, and I still like looking at them and thinking "I did that."
Time to do something new. I rather fancy learning how to make hats.
In other news, has anyone else been driven to FURY by those awful mini adverts that Channel 4 are showing around the Simpsons? They're for some shop or other, I can't remember who, and feature a variety of pretend families. The plot runs thus:
Child (who looks at least 25, and who is seen lying on the sofa, or on their bed with a laptop) screams the word "Mum" or "Dad" continuously for the length of the snippet. This in itself is fucking irritating.
Parent (dopey looking simpering doormat) then appears at the door of the room, summoned by the bellowing slightly younger person.
Child then demands a new item of clothing, presumably seen on a website on their laptop. No use of the word "please" is made. Not once.
Parent agrees. WITH A SMILE.
NOTHING about those adverts makes me want to use the product they are advertising. And whilst I understand the concept of targeted adverts - if you don't understand it, you're not the target market - I genuinely struggle to see who their target market is. Is it the parents? If so, portraying them as spineless walking wallets at the beck and call of their appalling offspring seems like a peculiar way to get them to buy into the concept.
If it's the children, why are they shown as being so old? My reaction to the bloody things (and this may be the point of course, some smart advertising concept person has come up with a way to make people sit up and take notice, even if it's only in fury) is to ask:
"Why doesn't that mother give that squawking great oaf of a son a clip around the ear for being such a bone idle, demanding, obnoxious bastard, instead of saying "Oh alright then..." with a simpering smile when he bellows at her and then orders her to get him new trainers?"
Gah.
The obvious answer is to stop watching TV, of course.
What else has been going on? Well, Mr WithaY and I went to the excellent Frome Super Market on Sunday. This is a monthly event held in the town centre, with all sorts of stalls selling foods, coffee, sausages inna bun, arty crafty stuff, dog treats, wooden doorstops, bunting and enamel baths. It's eclectic.
I bought some chocolate moulds from the organic Real Chocolate stall - most of what is sold is either Organic, Artisan or Hand Crafted. Frome is a bit like that - and have been amusing myself making chocolate mice for the upcoming Christmas fairs. Some have been more successful than others.
I made a batch of my delicious Chinese Style Plum Sauce, and am currently working on labelling that is more interesting and gift-friendly than my current style. Unfortunately my handwriting is readable but dull, so hand-written labels might be off the agenda. I might ask Mr WithaY to write them, as he can do gorgeous calligraphy, but that would take a lot of time, and time is money. Hark at me. That's a small business person right there.
I've also made a batch of mincemeat, and am planning to make some mini mince pies to take as free samples, in the hope that it will encourage people to buy the mincemeat. And if not, at least they'll know we make lovely mince pies if they're thinking of having a Christmas party catered.
Oh, I bought a recipe book for treats for dogs too. I know, via certain dog owners of my acquaintance, that people like to buy their dogs treats, and so I am going to make some festive dog biscuits and see if they sell. I will ensure they are clearly labelled FOR DOGS even though they will be safe for human consumption. The environmental health are funny about stuff like that.
Oh, and I bought a dog bed cover for Hester, from a company called Tuffies. It arrived before they said it would, it fits perfectly, and the dog loves it.
So well done Tuffies, and if you'd like to send me a free dog bed in return for all this advertising, I'd like a large one in flame red please. Ta.
Friday, 6 April 2012
Well preserved
I bought a giant box of red peppers at Christmas, which was fantastic. I could have also bought an enormous jar of pickled eggs, a whole cartwheel sized Brie, the fixtures and fittings of a defunct pub restaurant, and a herd of calves.
It's an excellent market.
But honestly, a whole box of lemons for a fiver? Who could say no to that sort of bargain? And they were really nice big juicy ones* too.
Unfortunately, when smitten with Bargain Blindness, I fail to maintain my usual sense of proportion and perspective, and even some common sense. So, I handed over my fiver, carried my box o' lemons to the car and drove home in high spirits, completely not thinking about what I was actually going to do with them all.
I counted them when I got home. There were 50 lemons in the box. Some of them were wrapped in paper, like little surprises.
"Ooh, what can this be? It's another lemon! Well, I wasn't expecting that."
This shook me, rather, and I got out the recipe books to see what recipes I have for 50 lemons. Turns out that most recipes only need "the zest and juice of one (or maybe two) lemons." Nowhere is there a recipe calling for "35 lemons, washed and zested," unfortunately.
Several hours of slicing, chopping, squeezing and weighing yielded me:
- A dozen bags of lemon wedges and slices which are in the freezer;
- A lemon drizzle cake;
- A large jar of lemon curd;
- A delicious lemon souffle pudding which I would recommend to anyone
A shedload. Here's the makings for the second batch I did, using (I think) 10 lemons a time. It took bloody ages.
I got bored by the last few jars and added dried chilli flakes to them. It will be interesting to see what that tastes like. It sounds like it should be nice. If you were in a posh restaurant and the menu included something called "hand cut lemon chilli marmalade" you'd think "ooh, that sounds interesting."
Well, I would.
As you may see from that picture, I was running low on jars, and had to scour the cupboard for old Chinese food containers to put cooked marmalade in. It was a useful learning experience though. For example: it seems that the very-similar-to-Chinese-food containers that deli olives come in do not stand up well to being filled with a boiling sugar product, and buckle dramatically after a very short time.
Yeah, that was a fun five minutes.
Anyhoo, the lemons are all used up with no waste, hurrah for me and my frugal ways, and I have a box full of jars of marmalade. And, though I say so myself, it's delicious. We've been having it for breakfast this week, on home-made** bread. Om nom nom.
Also this week, I have been making a Medieval jacket for Mr WithaY. He was supposed to be taking part in a re-enactment event this weekend but due to circumstances beyond his control, the plan fell through this morning. However, the jacket was made on a bit of a deadline, as we assumed he would need it today.
I drafted the pattern, cut it out, and got most of the machine sewing done on Wednesday, then hand finished it yesterday. I think it took me about 5 hours to do the drafting, fitting, cutting, machining and pressing, then another 5 or 6 for all the hand sewing. There are a lot of laceholes which had to be hand stitched, and you can't do it fast.
Well, I can't anyway.
So. Here's the pattern I made, finally fitted properly, with the outer fabric cut out. It's made of a madder (reddish) wool, lined with a slightly darker red linen.
This is the front view, laces have since been added to the eyelets all down the front edges. 20 of them, hand sewn. Did I mention that already? My fingers are still bloody sore.
This is the back view, please note the V-shaped collar insert which was an absolute bastard to get right.
It didn't help that I haven't made Medieval clothing before, so the shape of it seemed all wrong. I spent years making Seventeenth Century re-enactment kit, so I have a good feel for how it should look when it's complete, but this was all new.
I kept thinking "It's too wide...the sleeves are too full...that collar is all wrong" until Mr WithaY put it on. Then he looked like an extra from Cadfael, and I was relieved.
In other news: I went to the shopping village at Street, Somerset this week. I'd never been there before and a friend*** suggested we take a look, so we had a Big Day Out shopping.
Mmmmm shopping. I'd like to point out that not all of those bags are mine.
My advanced age and general lack of cool can be summed up by the fact that I bought myself (among other things) two new aprons, a butter dish and some soap, and was utterly delighted with the day.
The shopping village is on the site of the Clark's shoe factory, and there are some interesting bits and pieces relating to the history there.
The old factory chimney is impressive, and there are some fab London Plane trees in one of the courtyards.
It's not somewhere I'd visit regularly, but once or twice a year I think is fine. You can always stockpile aprons, after all.
*Apologies, smut seekers
**In a bread machine we were given. It's not Little House on the Prairie.
***Hello Jo!
Thursday, 24 November 2011
Spendthrift
I have my PC back. Hurrah.
It is much faster, the graphics are excellent and the box it's now in looks like something that would be capable of commanding a primitive civilisation on a distant planet if the fancy took it.
When I took the old computer in to the shop, the nice man talked me through the various things he would so to it. He was very keen to let me know how expensive a new graphics card could be, and went over the options several times.
He asked me how much I was "wanting to spend" on the upgrade. My honest answer would of course be "Nothing, you buffoon," but I had to lie.
He ran through the list of what needed doing, adding the approximate cost of each element. It came to - worst case scenario - about £500.
Are you ok if it goes up to about 500 pounds? he asked me. I agreed. Well, having just had all the component parts and associated costs explained thoroughly, it seemed unlikely that he would suddenly offer to do all the work for a lot less.
Cut to a few days later, and a telephone call from the computer shop.
Nice computer shop man: Hello! Your PC is ready for collection.
Me: Oh excellent. I'll pop into town and pick it up in a little while. How much will it be?
NCSM: £500.
Me: Really. £500 exactly?
NCSM: Yep, although I'll do £475 for cash.
Me: Hmm. Well, I'll be there shortly.
I didn't have cash, so it was a convenient, non-itemised £500 in total. What a strange coincidence, it costing the exact same amount as the maximum I'd said I was prepared to pay. Good job I hadn't said "Oh, no limit..."
I'd probably have had to sell the house, all my guitars and a kidney. Actually, I would have left my PC there and gone to buy a new one. Just for spite.
In other absurdly-expensive news, my car needed some work doing to it this week. Mr WithaY and I were on our way home from running a few errands in town on Saturday, Mr WithaY was driving my car. As we went up the little hill out of town, the car lurched and struggled, then lost all acceleration. The "engine warning " light came on.
"Fuck!" we both said in unison, as Mr WithaY pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine.
We sat there for a moment or two, then Mr WithaY started the engine again. The warning light stayed off, this time. We continued home, where I rang the Toyota garage.
Remember them? Remember when my flywheel was playing up and I had to spend over TWO THOUSAND POUNDS getting it fixed? And Toyota declined to contribute towards the cost, even though it was a known fault, because I missed the extended warranty deadline by a matter of days?
I bloody do.
Anyway, the garage said they'd look at my car on Monday. We dropped it off, and a few hours later the garage rang. They said they'd found the problem with the fuel - a stuck *tech* valve - which was making it lose power. They'd also given the car a "visual safety check" and discovered that one of the rear wheel bearings was "alarmingly worn." Arse.
So, the optimistic "bit of dirt in the fuel line that will cost about 20 quid to sort out" scenario which I had been developing in my head turned into the "costly and unexpected yet vital repairs that cost over 500 quid" scenario which nobody ever wants.
On the plus side, I have my car back and it doesn't seem to be about to expire in a gasping haze of smoke, or have a wheel drop off as I go round corners. Which is nice.
Other news: Business plans are developing, and as soon as I have something in writing I will start to explain in more detail. Until then, it feels like tempting fate to talk about it.
It is much faster, the graphics are excellent and the box it's now in looks like something that would be capable of commanding a primitive civilisation on a distant planet if the fancy took it.
When I took the old computer in to the shop, the nice man talked me through the various things he would so to it. He was very keen to let me know how expensive a new graphics card could be, and went over the options several times.
He asked me how much I was "wanting to spend" on the upgrade. My honest answer would of course be "Nothing, you buffoon," but I had to lie.
He ran through the list of what needed doing, adding the approximate cost of each element. It came to - worst case scenario - about £500.
Are you ok if it goes up to about 500 pounds? he asked me. I agreed. Well, having just had all the component parts and associated costs explained thoroughly, it seemed unlikely that he would suddenly offer to do all the work for a lot less.
Cut to a few days later, and a telephone call from the computer shop.
Nice computer shop man: Hello! Your PC is ready for collection.
Me: Oh excellent. I'll pop into town and pick it up in a little while. How much will it be?
NCSM: £500.
Me: Really. £500 exactly?
NCSM: Yep, although I'll do £475 for cash.
Me: Hmm. Well, I'll be there shortly.
I didn't have cash, so it was a convenient, non-itemised £500 in total. What a strange coincidence, it costing the exact same amount as the maximum I'd said I was prepared to pay. Good job I hadn't said "Oh, no limit..."
I'd probably have had to sell the house, all my guitars and a kidney. Actually, I would have left my PC there and gone to buy a new one. Just for spite.
In other absurdly-expensive news, my car needed some work doing to it this week. Mr WithaY and I were on our way home from running a few errands in town on Saturday, Mr WithaY was driving my car. As we went up the little hill out of town, the car lurched and struggled, then lost all acceleration. The "engine warning " light came on.
"Fuck!" we both said in unison, as Mr WithaY pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine.
We sat there for a moment or two, then Mr WithaY started the engine again. The warning light stayed off, this time. We continued home, where I rang the Toyota garage.
Remember them? Remember when my flywheel was playing up and I had to spend over TWO THOUSAND POUNDS getting it fixed? And Toyota declined to contribute towards the cost, even though it was a known fault, because I missed the extended warranty deadline by a matter of days?
I bloody do.
Anyway, the garage said they'd look at my car on Monday. We dropped it off, and a few hours later the garage rang. They said they'd found the problem with the fuel - a stuck *tech* valve - which was making it lose power. They'd also given the car a "visual safety check" and discovered that one of the rear wheel bearings was "alarmingly worn." Arse.
So, the optimistic "bit of dirt in the fuel line that will cost about 20 quid to sort out" scenario which I had been developing in my head turned into the "costly and unexpected yet vital repairs that cost over 500 quid" scenario which nobody ever wants.
On the plus side, I have my car back and it doesn't seem to be about to expire in a gasping haze of smoke, or have a wheel drop off as I go round corners. Which is nice.
Other news: Business plans are developing, and as soon as I have something in writing I will start to explain in more detail. Until then, it feels like tempting fate to talk about it.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Viva Las Sulis
You'll be delighted to know that Mr WithaY and I are both still full of cold. We seem to be taking part in an unofficial sneezing contest - a sneezathon, if you will - with both of us taking turns to scare the shit out of the other one with several explosive sneezes, followed by weak half-hearted nose-blowing and gasping for air. Sometimes there will also be an apology, but it never sounds very genuine.
I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy.
We are pasty and grumpy. More so than usual, I mean.
In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday. We had been planning the trip for a while. Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City. Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.
Or so we thought.
There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months. I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story.
Anyhoo. We got to the car park by 10.30. The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level. Gah! Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason. There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it. He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar.
The agenda for the day was as follows:
1) Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY. Don't ask.
2) Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**.
3) More charity shop scouring. There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.
4) Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.
5) Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.
6) Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends.
7) Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.
The reality was somewhat different.
Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town. The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more. Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice." All for under £25.
They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat.
I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it. Result.
So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission. What to do...what to do?
Aha! There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath. Where they sell Eggs Benedict. Nom nom nom. We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains.
Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.
In the covered market, I found this. Elvis. But in Lion form!
I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect. Look at the sneer on him!
And the attention to detail...well...
I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.
Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago? I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off.
Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:
It was raining! So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain. For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid.
Lunch. Ah yes, lunch. We went to the Hall and Woodhouse. It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely. It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich.
It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.
Mmmmm. Appetising.
To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention.
I should write restaurant reviews.
Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list. Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale. It's great being slightly less obese. You have so much more choice in clothes shops.
Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.
What a sack of arse that was.
It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles. In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street. I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.
Bastards.
I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."
*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon. With pay machines.
**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above. It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year.
***Yes, yes, I gave him some money. Well, it's traditional.
I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy.
We are pasty and grumpy. More so than usual, I mean.
In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday. We had been planning the trip for a while. Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City. Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.
Or so we thought.
There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months. I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story.
Anyhoo. We got to the car park by 10.30. The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level. Gah! Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason. There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it. He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar.
The agenda for the day was as follows:
1) Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY. Don't ask.
2) Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**.
3) More charity shop scouring. There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.
4) Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.
5) Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.
6) Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends.
7) Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.
The reality was somewhat different.
Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town. The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more. Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice." All for under £25.
They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat.
I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it. Result.
So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission. What to do...what to do?
Aha! There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath. Where they sell Eggs Benedict. Nom nom nom. We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains.
Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.
In the covered market, I found this. Elvis. But in Lion form!
I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect. Look at the sneer on him!
And the attention to detail...well...
I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.
Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago? I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off.
Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:
It was raining! So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain. For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid.
Lunch. Ah yes, lunch. We went to the Hall and Woodhouse. It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely. It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich.
It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.
To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention.
I should write restaurant reviews.
Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list. Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale. It's great being slightly less obese. You have so much more choice in clothes shops.
Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.
What a sack of arse that was.
It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles. In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street. I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.
Bastards.
I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."
*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon. With pay machines.
**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above. It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year.
***Yes, yes, I gave him some money. Well, it's traditional.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Values
So hello. Hope everyone is enjoying the festive season. Tis the season to be jolly, apparently, but I'll settle for "relaxed and cheerful". Jolly sounds far too much like hard work, and I am too idle for that right now.
Today we went to Salisbury, ready to hit the big city and check out the sales. In the big city shops, the ones with more than two styles of shoe, or a wider variety of goods than rat poison, ash buckets and mole traps. It's not like round here, you know.
As we had got up early*, we arrived in town without having eaten breakfast, so we found a cafe and had eggs Benedict. And it was GOOD. Not quite as fab as some of the eggs Benedicts we had in America. but not bad at all for a foggy Wiltshire Wednesday morning.
I picked up a couple of pretty tops in the M&S sale, one of which I had looked at when it was full price, so that was satisfying. Mr WithaY wanted some new jeans, and also possibly a new tweed jacket. He can't help it. He's just naturally tweedy.
We made our way across town to the splendid old-fashioned gents outfitters, and I took a seat in one of the big leather chairs while Mr WithaY rummaged through the racks of tweed jackets. His rummaging soon took him out of sight. Another couple wandered into view, him looking at clothes with enthusiasm, her distracted and grumpy.
Him: (Holding up a vibrant green and yellow tweed jacket) What about this one?
Her: Ugh. No. Put it back.
Him: *sigh*
He made his slow way along the rack, searching, searching, humming a happy tune.
Him: (Holding a more muted tweed jacket aloft, swinging it about) Aha! I like this one!
Her: GOD no.
He wandered a bit further, looking hard for the perfect jacket, clearly slightly deflated by her dislike of everything he was choosing.
Him: (Pulling a brown corduroy jacket out of the rack with glee) ....
Her: (Before he even spoke and without turning round to look) NO!
They wandered out of earshot, her still looking furious, him with the crumbling remains of a spring in his step. Not for long, I'll be bound.
We left without finding anything either, but at least we weren't looking like we were going to be murdering one another with axes before the New Year**.
I bought a new teapot to replace the one that got smashed to smithereens.
Today I have emailed more photos of the carnage to the insurance people. It hadn't occurred to me to call the insurance company until Z mentioned it in a comment, and then I thought I'd see how much it would cost to replace everything.
Yes, I know. Muppetry.
And guess what...the total came to over £500. Gah!
So, I photographed as much as I could identify, and have sent the pictures to the insurance people, along with the approximate replacement costs where I could find them.
It wasn't easy, a lot of the glass stuff was literally smashed to dust.
That's all that was left of a very large glass plate my Mum gave me. I loved that plate. Fucking stupid fucking shelf fucking collapse.
Anyhoo.
We also went to Waitrose this afternoon, part of the Big Day Out. As we walked into the store, an elderly couple were being reunited, surrounded by smiling staff. It looked a bit like one of those allegorical paintings with Eighteenth Century European royalty posing heroically, surrounded by fawning cherubim and seruphim.
Her: They've made three announcements for you! I've been so worried!
Him: What?
Her: Over the speakers...three times they announced that I was looking for you.
Him: Well I was outside. By the car.
Her: Three announcements. Three!
Him: I heard NOTHING.
The smiling staff melted away, and the elderly couple left, her still asserting that he had been lost, him insisting that he hadn't.
Other news: I have been making sausage rolls. And readers, they are damn fine. Father in law WithaY has been much impressed, something that takes quite a lot of doing.
Christmas Day was quiet, we went over to the care home to visit F-in-L, then home for a big roast dinner. Oh, and The man Who Would Be King on TV. I love that film.
There was a slight misunderstanding about Christmas gifts. On our return from F-in-L, I said to Mr WithaY "So...would you like to open your presents now?"
Mr W: What? I didn't think I had any presents.
Me: Of course you have! Silly!
Mr W: But we agreed...we weren't going to get presents for each other this year.
Me: No we didn't!
Mr W: Yes...we said we were going to buy a new TV instead.
Me: But we didn't do that. So you've got presents.
There was a rather awkward silence.
Mr W: Well, now I feel terrible.
Me: (Cheerfully, whilst inside I am screaming like a flayed banshee) Oh, never mind...come and open yours.
Good job it's my birthday soon. Next Christmas I think we will have a written agreement about whether or not we are Doing Presents. Just to save any arguments.
Oh, as a cheeful footnote, we went down to my lovely Mum's on Boxing Day and I had lovely, lovely presents from the family. So yay for families!
It was great, albeit a bit squashed. I think there were 16 of us there, at one point we were ALL in the sitting room. I love Christmas.
*Before 0930. Fuck knows how I am going to cope when I have to get up before 0600 for work again.
**Probably. I'll keep you posted
.
Today we went to Salisbury, ready to hit the big city and check out the sales. In the big city shops, the ones with more than two styles of shoe, or a wider variety of goods than rat poison, ash buckets and mole traps. It's not like round here, you know.
As we had got up early*, we arrived in town without having eaten breakfast, so we found a cafe and had eggs Benedict. And it was GOOD. Not quite as fab as some of the eggs Benedicts we had in America. but not bad at all for a foggy Wiltshire Wednesday morning.
I picked up a couple of pretty tops in the M&S sale, one of which I had looked at when it was full price, so that was satisfying. Mr WithaY wanted some new jeans, and also possibly a new tweed jacket. He can't help it. He's just naturally tweedy.
We made our way across town to the splendid old-fashioned gents outfitters, and I took a seat in one of the big leather chairs while Mr WithaY rummaged through the racks of tweed jackets. His rummaging soon took him out of sight. Another couple wandered into view, him looking at clothes with enthusiasm, her distracted and grumpy.
Him: (Holding up a vibrant green and yellow tweed jacket) What about this one?
Her: Ugh. No. Put it back.
Him: *sigh*
He made his slow way along the rack, searching, searching, humming a happy tune.
Him: (Holding a more muted tweed jacket aloft, swinging it about) Aha! I like this one!
Her: GOD no.
He wandered a bit further, looking hard for the perfect jacket, clearly slightly deflated by her dislike of everything he was choosing.
Him: (Pulling a brown corduroy jacket out of the rack with glee) ....
Her: (Before he even spoke and without turning round to look) NO!
They wandered out of earshot, her still looking furious, him with the crumbling remains of a spring in his step. Not for long, I'll be bound.
We left without finding anything either, but at least we weren't looking like we were going to be murdering one another with axes before the New Year**.
I bought a new teapot to replace the one that got smashed to smithereens.
Today I have emailed more photos of the carnage to the insurance people. It hadn't occurred to me to call the insurance company until Z mentioned it in a comment, and then I thought I'd see how much it would cost to replace everything.
Yes, I know. Muppetry.
And guess what...the total came to over £500. Gah!
So, I photographed as much as I could identify, and have sent the pictures to the insurance people, along with the approximate replacement costs where I could find them.
It wasn't easy, a lot of the glass stuff was literally smashed to dust.
That's all that was left of a very large glass plate my Mum gave me. I loved that plate. Fucking stupid fucking shelf fucking collapse.
Anyhoo.
We also went to Waitrose this afternoon, part of the Big Day Out. As we walked into the store, an elderly couple were being reunited, surrounded by smiling staff. It looked a bit like one of those allegorical paintings with Eighteenth Century European royalty posing heroically, surrounded by fawning cherubim and seruphim.
Her: They've made three announcements for you! I've been so worried!
Him: What?
Her: Over the speakers...three times they announced that I was looking for you.
Him: Well I was outside. By the car.
Her: Three announcements. Three!
Him: I heard NOTHING.
The smiling staff melted away, and the elderly couple left, her still asserting that he had been lost, him insisting that he hadn't.
Other news: I have been making sausage rolls. And readers, they are damn fine. Father in law WithaY has been much impressed, something that takes quite a lot of doing.
Christmas Day was quiet, we went over to the care home to visit F-in-L, then home for a big roast dinner. Oh, and The man Who Would Be King on TV. I love that film.
There was a slight misunderstanding about Christmas gifts. On our return from F-in-L, I said to Mr WithaY "So...would you like to open your presents now?"
Mr W: What? I didn't think I had any presents.
Me: Of course you have! Silly!
Mr W: But we agreed...we weren't going to get presents for each other this year.
Me: No we didn't!
Mr W: Yes...we said we were going to buy a new TV instead.
Me: But we didn't do that. So you've got presents.
There was a rather awkward silence.
Mr W: Well, now I feel terrible.
Me: (Cheerfully, whilst inside I am screaming like a flayed banshee) Oh, never mind...come and open yours.
Good job it's my birthday soon. Next Christmas I think we will have a written agreement about whether or not we are Doing Presents. Just to save any arguments.
Oh, as a cheeful footnote, we went down to my lovely Mum's on Boxing Day and I had lovely, lovely presents from the family. So yay for families!
It was great, albeit a bit squashed. I think there were 16 of us there, at one point we were ALL in the sitting room. I love Christmas.
*Before 0930. Fuck knows how I am going to cope when I have to get up before 0600 for work again.
**Probably. I'll keep you posted
.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Austerity measures for Dummies
I went to the supermarket today. That felt like a bit of an achievement, given that I can hardly breathe half the time, and the rest of the time has me coughing repulsively. Anyhoo, I went in armed with too many re-usable bags and no shopping list, never a good combination.
I resisted the temptation to buy bargain hot pies, or huge 25-bag multipacks of crisps, or gallon vats of cheap ice cream (a decision I have been regretting on and off ever since, I might add) and stocked up with all manner of sensible meat-and-potato meal makings. And vegetables. And washing up liquid. Yes, I am that sensible.
In my trolley were two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) for Father-in-Law WithaY, who has recently developed a taste for them. All seemed uneventful as the shopping was scanned and beeped and tagged and tracked* by the nice till lady.
She scanned the two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) then said "There's a Buy One, Get Two Free" offer on these. Do you want another tube of the same flavour?"
Me: No thanks, I only want the two tubes.
Till lady: But there's an offer on! You can have another one and get three but only pay for one!
Me: (packing potatoes and washing up liquid into a bag with grim efficiency) But I only want these two. Really.
There was a slightly accusing silence as she carried on scanning groceries and I packed bags, the two tubes of Pringles sitting folornly on the end of the conveyer belt like unwanted game show prizes.
Till lady: Well then, I will take off one of these tubes from the bill so you get one free. But you could have two free. Do you want two free?
Me: No.
I must admit that by this point I was interested to see what happened next, and prepared to argue cogently for my right to have just two tubes of Pringles if I wanted to.
This happened next:
Till lady: Oh! Gosh, that's strange.
Me: What is?
Till lady: It's taken both tubes off the bill. So...um...you get them both free. I think.
She fiddled about with the till for a bit, then slid both tubes down the counter to me as I continued cramming tins of beans and pots of probiotic yogurt** into the bags. There was a queue forming behind me, which may have affected her decision making.
Till lady: Yes. You get them both free. We'll just have an extra tube on the shelves now.
Me: (Warily) So...I get them for free? Are you sure?
Till lady: Yes. You can take them.
Me: (not touching them) Really? I don't want to take them without paying for them.
Till lady: (pushing them towards me encouragingly) But you get two free! So you can take those.
I relented and put them in my bag, paid for the shopping - not the Pringles, though, obviously - and left the shop without setting off any alarms.
All the way home I tried to work out how she had arrived at the conclusion that "buy one, get two free" can be converted into "buy two, don't pay for either of them." I am still not convinced by her logic, and am waiting for a knock on the door from the Fraud Squad.
Other news: I have bronchitis. Again. I went to the doctor on Tuesday. He listened to my chest, told me cheerfully that he's heard me sounding much worse, and gave me a prescription for the scary syphillis pills he prescribed at the end of my last bout of Black Lung.
He said "Chest infections usually only last five days or so. Let's see...how long did your last infection go on for? Hmmmm....December till.....oh. May. Well, yes. You were obviously a bit unlucky, weren't you?"
Yes, in the same sense that Cornwall is a bit wet at the moment.
He also commented "Oh, you've lost weight." I nodded, and was about to expound on my slow but steady progress when he said sternly "I hope it's not because of all the stress*** you've been dealing with?"
No, not stress, but thanks for asking, doctor. Eating fewer pies and drinking less cider, mostly.
I told him how much weight I intend to lose in total in order to be a non-overweight person according the the BMI scale; he advised me not to pay too much attention to BMI figures, and to weigh "as much as you feel comfortable with." Interesting advice, which I intend to ignore.
I am still up and writing my blog at 1am, by the way, because when I lay down in bed I start coughing hard enough to make my eyes shoot out of my head and slam into the bedroom ceiling. And that gets old fast.
Big day tomorrow. The auction house is coming to Father-in-Law WithaY's place to take out all the stuff that is going to be in a sale next month. So, hopefully I will be able to get in and give his place a bit of a clean and spruce-up once it's a bit less crammed with antiques. And then who knows, we might even sell it.
Which would be nice.
*I'm sure that we are all being monitored via our shopping.
**I'm on antibiotics. I have bronchitis again. Yay me.
***Shit Storm From Hades, although that is receding a bit now. More on this anon.
I resisted the temptation to buy bargain hot pies, or huge 25-bag multipacks of crisps, or gallon vats of cheap ice cream (a decision I have been regretting on and off ever since, I might add) and stocked up with all manner of sensible meat-and-potato meal makings. And vegetables. And washing up liquid. Yes, I am that sensible.
In my trolley were two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) for Father-in-Law WithaY, who has recently developed a taste for them. All seemed uneventful as the shopping was scanned and beeped and tagged and tracked* by the nice till lady.
She scanned the two tubes of Pringles (plain flavour) then said "There's a Buy One, Get Two Free" offer on these. Do you want another tube of the same flavour?"
Me: No thanks, I only want the two tubes.
Till lady: But there's an offer on! You can have another one and get three but only pay for one!
Me: (packing potatoes and washing up liquid into a bag with grim efficiency) But I only want these two. Really.
There was a slightly accusing silence as she carried on scanning groceries and I packed bags, the two tubes of Pringles sitting folornly on the end of the conveyer belt like unwanted game show prizes.
Till lady: Well then, I will take off one of these tubes from the bill so you get one free. But you could have two free. Do you want two free?
Me: No.
I must admit that by this point I was interested to see what happened next, and prepared to argue cogently for my right to have just two tubes of Pringles if I wanted to.
This happened next:
Till lady: Oh! Gosh, that's strange.
Me: What is?
Till lady: It's taken both tubes off the bill. So...um...you get them both free. I think.
She fiddled about with the till for a bit, then slid both tubes down the counter to me as I continued cramming tins of beans and pots of probiotic yogurt** into the bags. There was a queue forming behind me, which may have affected her decision making.
Till lady: Yes. You get them both free. We'll just have an extra tube on the shelves now.
Me: (Warily) So...I get them for free? Are you sure?
Till lady: Yes. You can take them.
Me: (not touching them) Really? I don't want to take them without paying for them.
Till lady: (pushing them towards me encouragingly) But you get two free! So you can take those.
I relented and put them in my bag, paid for the shopping - not the Pringles, though, obviously - and left the shop without setting off any alarms.
All the way home I tried to work out how she had arrived at the conclusion that "buy one, get two free" can be converted into "buy two, don't pay for either of them." I am still not convinced by her logic, and am waiting for a knock on the door from the Fraud Squad.
Other news: I have bronchitis. Again. I went to the doctor on Tuesday. He listened to my chest, told me cheerfully that he's heard me sounding much worse, and gave me a prescription for the scary syphillis pills he prescribed at the end of my last bout of Black Lung.
He said "Chest infections usually only last five days or so. Let's see...how long did your last infection go on for? Hmmmm....December till.....oh. May. Well, yes. You were obviously a bit unlucky, weren't you?"
Yes, in the same sense that Cornwall is a bit wet at the moment.
He also commented "Oh, you've lost weight." I nodded, and was about to expound on my slow but steady progress when he said sternly "I hope it's not because of all the stress*** you've been dealing with?"
No, not stress, but thanks for asking, doctor. Eating fewer pies and drinking less cider, mostly.
I told him how much weight I intend to lose in total in order to be a non-overweight person according the the BMI scale; he advised me not to pay too much attention to BMI figures, and to weigh "as much as you feel comfortable with." Interesting advice, which I intend to ignore.
I am still up and writing my blog at 1am, by the way, because when I lay down in bed I start coughing hard enough to make my eyes shoot out of my head and slam into the bedroom ceiling. And that gets old fast.
Big day tomorrow. The auction house is coming to Father-in-Law WithaY's place to take out all the stuff that is going to be in a sale next month. So, hopefully I will be able to get in and give his place a bit of a clean and spruce-up once it's a bit less crammed with antiques. And then who knows, we might even sell it.
Which would be nice.
*I'm sure that we are all being monitored via our shopping.
**I'm on antibiotics. I have bronchitis again. Yay me.
***Shit Storm From Hades, although that is receding a bit now. More on this anon.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Dog days
Hello! I'm still here, still alive and everything, just not been doing much that I thought was worth blogging about.
I know, I know, doesn't usually stop me.
Hot, though, isn't it? Blimey. 25 degrees centigrade in here, according to my little thermometer on the wall, and that's at 10pm. There's no point going to bed yet, I'll be far too hot, so I have been painting my toenails, ready to inflict their damask loveliness on all of London Town tomorrow.
I'm trying not to think about the train journeys. If the air conditioning works, it's ok. If it doesn't (a far more likely scenario) it will be two hours of sweaty muggy unpleasantness all the way to Waterloo. And home again, of course, when it will be many degrees warmer and probably a lot more crowded. Gah.
But that's enough about nasty, sweaty train travel. We all know I will be ranting about it afterwards, so why expend energy now anticipating it?
But, yes, sweaty stuff. I am currently trying out a new venture in armpit-wear. It is this and it works. Impressively so. After three hours in the garden everything was still perfectly dry and fragrant. I have no idea how it works, I expect I have far sweatier hands now or something, but hey, I can live with that.
This afternoon we have been mostly Planting Things In The Garden. These things, among other things:
We've been to see our mates up in Gloucestershire this weekend, having a truly lovely weekend relaxing, eating, drinking and laughing a lot more than we have for a while. Mr WithaY and I both feel so much better for it.
They took us to the discount shopping centre at Gloucester Docks, where Mr WithaY bought new sandals.
*Yes, I know it's lovely. And I am really genuinely pleased that the weather is so fantastic. I am just doing the traditional British "Ooh, I don't like it when it's too hot" thing.
I know, I know, doesn't usually stop me.
Hot, though, isn't it? Blimey. 25 degrees centigrade in here, according to my little thermometer on the wall, and that's at 10pm. There's no point going to bed yet, I'll be far too hot, so I have been painting my toenails, ready to inflict their damask loveliness on all of London Town tomorrow.
I'm trying not to think about the train journeys. If the air conditioning works, it's ok. If it doesn't (a far more likely scenario) it will be two hours of sweaty muggy unpleasantness all the way to Waterloo. And home again, of course, when it will be many degrees warmer and probably a lot more crowded. Gah.
But that's enough about nasty, sweaty train travel. We all know I will be ranting about it afterwards, so why expend energy now anticipating it?
But, yes, sweaty stuff. I am currently trying out a new venture in armpit-wear. It is this and it works. Impressively so. After three hours in the garden everything was still perfectly dry and fragrant. I have no idea how it works, I expect I have far sweatier hands now or something, but hey, I can live with that.
This afternoon we have been mostly Planting Things In The Garden. These things, among other things:
Runner beans, marjoram, oregano, hyssop and creeping thyme. There were also two blueberry bushes, which I have high hopes for.
We've been to see our mates up in Gloucestershire this weekend, having a truly lovely weekend relaxing, eating, drinking and laughing a lot more than we have for a while. Mr WithaY and I both feel so much better for it.
They took us to the discount shopping centre at Gloucester Docks, where Mr WithaY bought new sandals.
He promises not to wear them with the socks. Well, not in public, at least.
Here they are au naturale (sp?):
I bought some very nice tops in the Per Una section of the Marks and Spencer there, hugely reduced, and even better, a size smaller than I usually buy. I tried on a very pretty skirt, but it was too big. Too BIG. I was thrilled. Hurrah for me.
We spent a lot of time fussing over the spaniels. Regular readers will recall that these same spaniels have committed dreadful atrocities in the WithaY garden when they have come visiting. The rosemary bush was never quite the same again.
There are actually three of them, but the buggers were never all in the same place at the same time to photograph.
Right. Toenail varnish is dry. I need to try and get some sleep despite the heat*, and then I can get up at 6 tomorrow without feeling as though it's some sort of hideous punishment.
Other news: Brother in Law seems to be improving slowly. Fingers crossed that his recovery is complete and rapid.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
The Muffin Man
In the supermarket this afternoon I was diverted by a man who strode powerfully through the crowds of shoppers, his mobile phone clamped to his ear, his empty basket swinging freely, endangering anyone who happened to be in the way of his hugely important path.
Everything about his demeanour said: "Don't get in my way, I am far too busy and important to look where I am going."
As he walked past me, a trail of dazed and impressed shoppers in his wake, I overheard him speaking to someone.
"Yeah. I'm in the supermarket. The bread aisle."
All my illusions that he was negotiating with kidnappers, or orchestrating a huge corporate buy-out were dashed. He was probably just checking in with his wife to make sure he didn't come home without the correct brand of muffin. Gah.
Everything about his demeanour said: "Don't get in my way, I am far too busy and important to look where I am going."
As he walked past me, a trail of dazed and impressed shoppers in his wake, I overheard him speaking to someone.
"Yeah. I'm in the supermarket. The bread aisle."
All my illusions that he was negotiating with kidnappers, or orchestrating a huge corporate buy-out were dashed. He was probably just checking in with his wife to make sure he didn't come home without the correct brand of muffin. Gah.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Setting up
So, we have a fishtank in the sitting room. No fish yet, because the tank has to acclimate first, or they will die. DIE!
It took a fair old bit of setting up.
First we had to put the cabinet into position, with a layer of special squishy expanded polystyrene under it to protect from frost. Or electric shocks. Or maybe earth tremors. I wasn't really listening at that point.
Then the tank itself, carefully lowered into place by Mr WithaY and I, making sure it was level. Mr WithaY's spirit level has been much in evidence this weekend.
Once the tank was satisfactorily in position, we added dirt and rocks. Not just any old dirt and rocks though. Special Fish Shop dirt and rocks. Also a background, so the fish don't press their noses to the back of the tank and comment disparagingly on our choice of wallpaper.
It took a fair old bit of setting up.
First we had to put the cabinet into position, with a layer of special squishy expanded polystyrene under it to protect from frost. Or electric shocks. Or maybe earth tremors. I wasn't really listening at that point.
Then the tank itself, carefully lowered into place by Mr WithaY and I, making sure it was level. Mr WithaY's spirit level has been much in evidence this weekend.
After that, there was the artful placing of Big Rocks and Wood. Again, specially bought from the Fish Shop (I have a feeling they are going to see a lot of us), then thoroughly scrubbed by Mr WithaY to ensure no fish-killing germs are left clinging to them. He ignored my suggestion that we use bleach.
Once the dirt, gravel, rocks and wood were installed, we could add plants and water. No fish though. Not yet.
Hmmm, maybe a bit more water than that?
That's better.
Now we have to wait for all the sediment to settle, the filter system to get going and the water temperature to get to the required level. That will take about a week, and then we can add a few fish.
It's all very exciting.
Other news: I still have a cough, but I feel much better than I did, so, all in all, an improvement. It's been snowing here today for the first time, not much, but the roads are white. I expect it will have vanished by morning. I hope so, as we are driving down to visit my lovely Mum for the day, and driving all the way in snow would be a pain in the arse.
Also, I made a huge lasagna for dinner tonight, which was bloody excellent. I can't remember the last time I made one, and it was a very satisfying thing to do for an hour or so on a cold afternoon. Plus we got a fab meal at the end of it.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Shopping list
Mr WithaY is out, wandering the wide open spaces of West Wiltshire, somewhere in the rain. Where can he be, I wonder?
Possibly sat in his Landrover stuck in a huge hole that even his mighty entrenching tool can't remedy?
Possibly up a tree, clinging to a branch with a pack of snarling stoats after his blood, desperately trying to get a signal on his mobile to call for an airstrike*?
Possibly sneakily shopping in Salisbury, buying me a fabulous Christmas present?
Possibly sat in someone else's kitchen, drinking tea and eating cake?
I have no idea. He'll be back eventually. Given his track record, I am always slightly apprehensive if he's gone for more than a few hours, but fingers crossed, eh.
I decided to Get Stuff Done, so went into town** and ran errands like a woman possessed. I have ordered us a turkey for Christmas from the local butcher. A free-range bronze, which sounds like it will be mighty tasty. As the butcher was filling in the order form I asked him "It'll be dead, will it?" He looked up at me for a moment, not quite sure if I was joking, then said "No, madam, but it will be in a box. You'll just need to get it out and kill it." He then did an exceptionally good mime of a man taking a live turkey out of a box, upside down. If he gives up butchering the man has a career in alternative theatre just waiting for him.
I bought Christmas cards. We decided this year we are not sending out hundreds of cards, but instead will make a donation to charity. Most of the cards we get are just "To Name and Name love from Name and Name (and Name and Name and dog.)" I always try to write a message in every card, because otherwise it seems like a bit of a waste of time, to be honest. Anyway, we will send out some cards, but far fewer than we usually do. I will have to make more of an effort and actually ring people to talk to them.
I went to Lidl. Ahhhhhh Lidl. What a great shop. You can get anything in there, if you turn up on the right day. Today they were offering electronic keyboards, brioche pans (I bought one), slippers in a huge range of styles and sizes but only one colour*** and a drummer's stool. A seat, I mean. For sitting on. Oh, and a nice little wooden cabinet with a glass-inlaid door. Well, that's what I thought it was. Turns out it is a box to keep tea bags in, but I like my idea better. Anyway, I bought one. I can't resist their weird bargains.
I bought a couple of bottles of their Champagne which is usually not half bad, and some cheap brandy as the Christmas cake has finished all ours. Greedy bloody cake that it is. I swear it's started moving around the kitchen on its own, rummaging through the cupboards and mocking my crockery.
Where else...Ah yes.
I went to Argos, as we needed a new iron**** and I can't be arsed with looking at stuff in electrical shops for hours. All the Argos catalogues were open at the Wii pages, which I thought was funny. I left a few open at the Ironing Accoutrement Pages so that people will think "Some poor bastard is in for a miserable Christmas present." Heh.
Other news: I have been learning to play the acoustic version of "Hey Ya", the Obadiah Parker version. Look it up on YouTube if you've never heard it. Lovely.
Oh, and a mate put me onto Jeff Healey, who (shamefully) I had never heard of. Disgraceful, I know. What an astonishingly talented man.
Unfortunately, though, when I see people who can play guitar like that it doesn't inspre me to become as good as them. I just think "Why do I even bother?" and think about selling all my guitars. I won't, but it is interesting to see exactly how uncompetitive I am in some areas. Whilst still being dreadfully, inappropriately competitive in others, of course.
Right. Time for a cup of tea. I love Saturdays.
*This one's my favourite idea.
**Ha!
***Beige
****Rock and Roll, man! Rock and fucking roll.
Possibly sat in his Landrover stuck in a huge hole that even his mighty entrenching tool can't remedy?
Possibly up a tree, clinging to a branch with a pack of snarling stoats after his blood, desperately trying to get a signal on his mobile to call for an airstrike*?
Possibly sneakily shopping in Salisbury, buying me a fabulous Christmas present?
Possibly sat in someone else's kitchen, drinking tea and eating cake?
I have no idea. He'll be back eventually. Given his track record, I am always slightly apprehensive if he's gone for more than a few hours, but fingers crossed, eh.
I decided to Get Stuff Done, so went into town** and ran errands like a woman possessed. I have ordered us a turkey for Christmas from the local butcher. A free-range bronze, which sounds like it will be mighty tasty. As the butcher was filling in the order form I asked him "It'll be dead, will it?" He looked up at me for a moment, not quite sure if I was joking, then said "No, madam, but it will be in a box. You'll just need to get it out and kill it." He then did an exceptionally good mime of a man taking a live turkey out of a box, upside down. If he gives up butchering the man has a career in alternative theatre just waiting for him.
I bought Christmas cards. We decided this year we are not sending out hundreds of cards, but instead will make a donation to charity. Most of the cards we get are just "To Name and Name love from Name and Name (and Name and Name and dog.)" I always try to write a message in every card, because otherwise it seems like a bit of a waste of time, to be honest. Anyway, we will send out some cards, but far fewer than we usually do. I will have to make more of an effort and actually ring people to talk to them.
I went to Lidl. Ahhhhhh Lidl. What a great shop. You can get anything in there, if you turn up on the right day. Today they were offering electronic keyboards, brioche pans (I bought one), slippers in a huge range of styles and sizes but only one colour*** and a drummer's stool. A seat, I mean. For sitting on. Oh, and a nice little wooden cabinet with a glass-inlaid door. Well, that's what I thought it was. Turns out it is a box to keep tea bags in, but I like my idea better. Anyway, I bought one. I can't resist their weird bargains.
I bought a couple of bottles of their Champagne which is usually not half bad, and some cheap brandy as the Christmas cake has finished all ours. Greedy bloody cake that it is. I swear it's started moving around the kitchen on its own, rummaging through the cupboards and mocking my crockery.
Where else...Ah yes.
I went to Argos, as we needed a new iron**** and I can't be arsed with looking at stuff in electrical shops for hours. All the Argos catalogues were open at the Wii pages, which I thought was funny. I left a few open at the Ironing Accoutrement Pages so that people will think "Some poor bastard is in for a miserable Christmas present." Heh.
Other news: I have been learning to play the acoustic version of "Hey Ya", the Obadiah Parker version. Look it up on YouTube if you've never heard it. Lovely.
Oh, and a mate put me onto Jeff Healey, who (shamefully) I had never heard of. Disgraceful, I know. What an astonishingly talented man.
Unfortunately, though, when I see people who can play guitar like that it doesn't inspre me to become as good as them. I just think "Why do I even bother?" and think about selling all my guitars. I won't, but it is interesting to see exactly how uncompetitive I am in some areas. Whilst still being dreadfully, inappropriately competitive in others, of course.
Right. Time for a cup of tea. I love Saturdays.
*This one's my favourite idea.
**Ha!
***Beige
****Rock and Roll, man! Rock and fucking roll.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Less is more
Still alive, not having been electrocuted by the wild sparking power line of doom over the weekend! Hurrah!
We drove up to see our lovely mates in Gloucester on Saturday morning, rather than on Friday night, as originally planned. Apparently there were trees down all over the place, and floods, and all sorts. We decided that trying to navigate all that lot in the dark was a bad idea, and it was more sensible to wait till daylight. Saturday and Sunday were spent in the company of great friends, fine food and the rugby. Marvellous.
Today, as is traditional these days, I was up in London for work. After a refreshing four hours sleep, waking at 3.30am, then dozing, waking up with a start to look at the time, dozing some more, and finally getting up ten minutes before the alarm went off, I was shagged* by the time I got to the office. A long day of meetings, climaxing in a load of complicated emails to write and send before I went home meant that I was in tip-top sparkling form for the train journey.
The woman sat next to me was making notes on some industrial tribunal case (I gathered this from the bits I read sneakily while she wasn't looking), so if you are taking your boss to court after being a whistleblower, you might want to ask your legal team if they are in the habit of doing their homework on the train of a night.
But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. Oh no. Much more serious matters are filling my head this evening.
A conversation in the pub on Friday night about grammatical errors on supermarket signs, specifically "Ten Items or Less" caused one of our mates to start frothing with righteous indignation at the appalling standard of grammar taught in schools today. And presumably also in supermarkets.
"It's "Ten Items or FEWER" not "Less"....Less is just WRONG!" She was most insistent. And oddly, the more we teased her about it, the more insistent she became. Her fantastic, grammatically-correct rant culminated with a promise to find out the name and address of the Chief Executive of Morrison's and send him (or her) a scathing letter explaining how very, very wrong they are, and demanding that they amend all their signs IMMEDIATELY.
I look forward to the reply.
It started me thinking about the whole Ten Items or Less** concept though. If, for example, you picked up a Two For The Price Of One offer, say two boxes of cornflakes, would you technically be buying one, or two items?
In theory, you could take 20 items through the Ten Items or Less*** aisle because you are actually only buying ten. The other ten are free.
Also, if you took one of the Buy One Get One Free items out of the shop without paying for it, are you stealing? You could say that you are taking the Get One Free one, and leaving the Buy One in the shop.
Legal clarification would be helpful, before I go to the shops next.
*And not in a fun way.
**Heh, sorry Sarah
**I'm not going to stop doing it
We drove up to see our lovely mates in Gloucester on Saturday morning, rather than on Friday night, as originally planned. Apparently there were trees down all over the place, and floods, and all sorts. We decided that trying to navigate all that lot in the dark was a bad idea, and it was more sensible to wait till daylight. Saturday and Sunday were spent in the company of great friends, fine food and the rugby. Marvellous.
Today, as is traditional these days, I was up in London for work. After a refreshing four hours sleep, waking at 3.30am, then dozing, waking up with a start to look at the time, dozing some more, and finally getting up ten minutes before the alarm went off, I was shagged* by the time I got to the office. A long day of meetings, climaxing in a load of complicated emails to write and send before I went home meant that I was in tip-top sparkling form for the train journey.
The woman sat next to me was making notes on some industrial tribunal case (I gathered this from the bits I read sneakily while she wasn't looking), so if you are taking your boss to court after being a whistleblower, you might want to ask your legal team if they are in the habit of doing their homework on the train of a night.
But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. Oh no. Much more serious matters are filling my head this evening.
A conversation in the pub on Friday night about grammatical errors on supermarket signs, specifically "Ten Items or Less" caused one of our mates to start frothing with righteous indignation at the appalling standard of grammar taught in schools today. And presumably also in supermarkets.
"It's "Ten Items or FEWER" not "Less"....Less is just WRONG!" She was most insistent. And oddly, the more we teased her about it, the more insistent she became. Her fantastic, grammatically-correct rant culminated with a promise to find out the name and address of the Chief Executive of Morrison's and send him (or her) a scathing letter explaining how very, very wrong they are, and demanding that they amend all their signs IMMEDIATELY.
I look forward to the reply.
It started me thinking about the whole Ten Items or Less** concept though. If, for example, you picked up a Two For The Price Of One offer, say two boxes of cornflakes, would you technically be buying one, or two items?
In theory, you could take 20 items through the Ten Items or Less*** aisle because you are actually only buying ten. The other ten are free.
Also, if you took one of the Buy One Get One Free items out of the shop without paying for it, are you stealing? You could say that you are taking the Get One Free one, and leaving the Buy One in the shop.
Legal clarification would be helpful, before I go to the shops next.
*And not in a fun way.
**Heh, sorry Sarah
**I'm not going to stop doing it
Saturday, 7 November 2009
What to do, what to do....
Mr WithaY is off out for the day tomorrow, weather permitting. I am wondering what to do with myself, home alone all day. I could get up to all kinds of mischief.
I toyed with the idea of going to Bath on the train to gawp at the redevelopment of the city centre, but then I remembered I spend fucking HOURS on the train every week anyway, so rejected that idea.
I could drive there, but parking in Bath is like a punishment for transgressions in a former life. I bet even people on their 50th incarnation, one small step away from Nirvana, still struggle to find a decent parking space in Bath on a Saturday. Unless they get there at 7am. Which they probably do, smug Karmic bastards.
But. But. Bath has some great shops.
Long Tall Sally for one. I always find lovely things in there, and buy them in a sort of deprived-villager shopping frenzy, having learned from painful experience that they will NOT be there next time I pop in. There always seems to be a sale on, with stuff on the rails in my size (that I admired but didn't buy at full price) reduced to eight quid. Who could resist?
Not me, matey.
Also, Lush. Now I am having a moral dilemma about Lush at the moment. They have taken a stance on an issue which I think is wrong; they are, of course, entitled to their opinion.
They are donating a percentage of the profits of a particular product to the hunt saboteurs association. I don't hunt, nor do I think I know anyone who does, but I feel quite strongly that the hunt saboteurs' methods should not be encouraged.
So, do I stop buying Lush products completely, to make a point? Or, do I continue to buy their other products, not the one which they are donating the profit from, as I am completely in support of their organic, environmentally-friendly, non-animal-tested, minimal-packaging, fantastic products?
Does the good that they do in terms of enviromental impact outweigh what I consider to be a bad decision to offer financial support to a group which I think shouldn't be encouraged?
Tough call. So many italics.
There are also some fine jewellery shops, but I am not really able to afford to buy myself a pair of huge solitaire diamond earrings this month. So. Arse.
I expect I'll just pop out get the papers, maybe watch a dvd as there is seldom anything worth watching on TV, play my guitar for a bit, faff about on the Internets, and drink tea. It's not a bad way to spend a day, especially if it's peeing down with rain, as the forecast is promising.
What Would Captain Kirk Do*?
*Other than teach alien women how to love, and get his shirt artfully ripped in a fist fight.
I toyed with the idea of going to Bath on the train to gawp at the redevelopment of the city centre, but then I remembered I spend fucking HOURS on the train every week anyway, so rejected that idea.
I could drive there, but parking in Bath is like a punishment for transgressions in a former life. I bet even people on their 50th incarnation, one small step away from Nirvana, still struggle to find a decent parking space in Bath on a Saturday. Unless they get there at 7am. Which they probably do, smug Karmic bastards.
But. But. Bath has some great shops.
Long Tall Sally for one. I always find lovely things in there, and buy them in a sort of deprived-villager shopping frenzy, having learned from painful experience that they will NOT be there next time I pop in. There always seems to be a sale on, with stuff on the rails in my size (that I admired but didn't buy at full price) reduced to eight quid. Who could resist?
Not me, matey.
Also, Lush. Now I am having a moral dilemma about Lush at the moment. They have taken a stance on an issue which I think is wrong; they are, of course, entitled to their opinion.
They are donating a percentage of the profits of a particular product to the hunt saboteurs association. I don't hunt, nor do I think I know anyone who does, but I feel quite strongly that the hunt saboteurs' methods should not be encouraged.
So, do I stop buying Lush products completely, to make a point? Or, do I continue to buy their other products, not the one which they are donating the profit from, as I am completely in support of their organic, environmentally-friendly, non-animal-tested, minimal-packaging, fantastic products?
Does the good that they do in terms of enviromental impact outweigh what I consider to be a bad decision to offer financial support to a group which I think shouldn't be encouraged?
Tough call. So many italics.
There are also some fine jewellery shops, but I am not really able to afford to buy myself a pair of huge solitaire diamond earrings this month. So. Arse.
I expect I'll just pop out get the papers, maybe watch a dvd as there is seldom anything worth watching on TV, play my guitar for a bit, faff about on the Internets, and drink tea. It's not a bad way to spend a day, especially if it's peeing down with rain, as the forecast is promising.
What Would Captain Kirk Do*?
*Other than teach alien women how to love, and get his shirt artfully ripped in a fist fight.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Mal de Dorset
This weekend I have done a lot of driving, most of it either in the dark, or in appalling low visibility due to heavy rain. It's been fun.
It took me over two hours yesterday morning to get to my lovely Mum's house. A combination of appalling rain, motorway spray and heavy traffic meant that I seldom managed to get much over 50mph, except for brief spurts on the motorway, in between the 40mph roadworks sections.
Ahhh travel in 21st Century Britain.
It was a shame that it was so dark and rainy, as otherwise it would have been a beautiful trip. What I did see of the trees in all their Autumn glory was lovely.
All that aside, once I got there, we had a relaxing comfortable day doing little more than chatting, doing the Saturday Telegraph crosswords, watching films* on TV, and eating a rather splendid Chinese takeaway.
It was excellent.
When I got home, Mr WithaY was collapsed full-length on the sofa, post-bath in his tracksuit bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, watching "Watchmen" on DVD. He was knackered, having got up early and spent the day tramping across the countryside, shooting. He brought some pheasants home, so I expect they will feature at a Dinner Party Near You** soon.
I watched the last 40 minutes or so of the film with him, and thoroughly enjoyed it, despite having seen it before, and missing the first two and a bit hours this time. If you haven't already seen it, you should. It's long (almost 3 hours) and there are some icky "look away" bits, but the story is great and I love the way it's filmed.
Today we went down to check on Father-in-Law WithaY's house (still standing, still full of all his stuff, still not for sale, gah) and then called in at Tesco in Shaftesbury on the way home. Unfortunately, I was overcome with what can only be described as sea-sickness on the way there, and spent much of the trip feeling myself getting paler, tremblier and cold-sweatier. As we drove through Shaftesbury I was having nighmarish visions of having to stick my head out of the window and vomit copiously all over the scenic streets and merry tourists.
I managed to not do that, but it was a close run thing.
Walking around the Tesco car park taking big breaths*** restored me to more or less normality, and we were able to get all the groceries AND another digital radio (£25! Bargain!) without any vomit being involved.
The radio I bought at Asda is now living in my study up here, as I can get Planet Rock on it. Hurrah. The one in the kitchen is currently tuned to BBC Asian music. Mr WithaY and I were dancing around to bhangra music as we put the shopping away.
Before I felt as though I was going to die, I took a couple of pictures out of the car window of a fabulous poppy field in full bloom.
*"A Passage to India", which I had read but never seen before, and then "What About Bob" which contains Richard Dreyfuss chewing up the scenery in a splendid manner.
**But only if you live round here. If not, get used to disappointment.
***Yeth, and I'm only thixthteen.
It took me over two hours yesterday morning to get to my lovely Mum's house. A combination of appalling rain, motorway spray and heavy traffic meant that I seldom managed to get much over 50mph, except for brief spurts on the motorway, in between the 40mph roadworks sections.
Ahhh travel in 21st Century Britain.
It was a shame that it was so dark and rainy, as otherwise it would have been a beautiful trip. What I did see of the trees in all their Autumn glory was lovely.
All that aside, once I got there, we had a relaxing comfortable day doing little more than chatting, doing the Saturday Telegraph crosswords, watching films* on TV, and eating a rather splendid Chinese takeaway.
It was excellent.
When I got home, Mr WithaY was collapsed full-length on the sofa, post-bath in his tracksuit bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, watching "Watchmen" on DVD. He was knackered, having got up early and spent the day tramping across the countryside, shooting. He brought some pheasants home, so I expect they will feature at a Dinner Party Near You** soon.
I watched the last 40 minutes or so of the film with him, and thoroughly enjoyed it, despite having seen it before, and missing the first two and a bit hours this time. If you haven't already seen it, you should. It's long (almost 3 hours) and there are some icky "look away" bits, but the story is great and I love the way it's filmed.
Today we went down to check on Father-in-Law WithaY's house (still standing, still full of all his stuff, still not for sale, gah) and then called in at Tesco in Shaftesbury on the way home. Unfortunately, I was overcome with what can only be described as sea-sickness on the way there, and spent much of the trip feeling myself getting paler, tremblier and cold-sweatier. As we drove through Shaftesbury I was having nighmarish visions of having to stick my head out of the window and vomit copiously all over the scenic streets and merry tourists.
I managed to not do that, but it was a close run thing.
Walking around the Tesco car park taking big breaths*** restored me to more or less normality, and we were able to get all the groceries AND another digital radio (£25! Bargain!) without any vomit being involved.
The radio I bought at Asda is now living in my study up here, as I can get Planet Rock on it. Hurrah. The one in the kitchen is currently tuned to BBC Asian music. Mr WithaY and I were dancing around to bhangra music as we put the shopping away.
Before I felt as though I was going to die, I took a couple of pictures out of the car window of a fabulous poppy field in full bloom.
You can't see just how big that field is. It's HUGE. Take my word for it.
*"A Passage to India", which I had read but never seen before, and then "What About Bob" which contains Richard Dreyfuss chewing up the scenery in a splendid manner.
**But only if you live round here. If not, get used to disappointment.
***Yeth, and I'm only thixthteen.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Doing It Ourselves
It's been a big day in the WithaY household. Possibly one of those days that everyone remembers in years to come as The Big Day, in capital letters.
We own our very own proper lawnmower. Not a strimmer. Not a Flymo. Not an electric one. It's a proper petrol-driven, grown-up, lean, mean grasscutting machine.
As soon as we got back from the DIY shop, Mr WithaY went out and cut the front and back lawns, then stood looking out of the windows in all parts of the house to admire his handiwork. Every now and again he would sigh contentedly and say "Have you looked at the lawns yet?" in case I had missed the beauty that was The Cut Grass.
I tried to join in by pulling up some weeds, but got bored and left the two of them alone together, roaring round the garden in a mist of grass cuttings and fumes.
We also bought shitloads of paint to decorate our hall and stairs. We decorated them in a bit of a hurry when we first moved in, because it was all so depressing. The walls were covered with what had once been rather nice paper, but over the 30 years it had been up, it had got discoloured and filthy. The paintwork was pale brown from years of heavy smoking in the house, and everything was slightly sticky.
So, we stripped the walls, scrubbed the paintwork, which was actually white (mostly), put up thick lining paper and slapped on a couple of coats of pale pink emulsion. Worked a treat, and really warmed up the place.
Eight years on, the rest of the house has been decorated to a much higher standard, usually by professionals, and the hall and stairs now look, frankly, shit.
There is now a collection of tins of paint, new brushes and rollers waiting to be deployed. The plan was that Mr WithaY and I would do it* over Easter.
However, today, during the course of a visit to Father-in-Law WithaY, Mr WithaY mentioned ever-so-casually that he was going fishing all day on Friday. Oh, and diving all day on Sunday. And he is away for work on Thursday evening.
Hmmm.
So, looks like I will be getting on with the decorating on my own, which is a bit of a shame, because I am of the "fuck it, near enough" school of decorating, and Mr WithaY belongs to the "micro-millimetre perfect" school of decorating.
*fnar
We own our very own proper lawnmower. Not a strimmer. Not a Flymo. Not an electric one. It's a proper petrol-driven, grown-up, lean, mean grasscutting machine.
As soon as we got back from the DIY shop, Mr WithaY went out and cut the front and back lawns, then stood looking out of the windows in all parts of the house to admire his handiwork. Every now and again he would sigh contentedly and say "Have you looked at the lawns yet?" in case I had missed the beauty that was The Cut Grass.
I tried to join in by pulling up some weeds, but got bored and left the two of them alone together, roaring round the garden in a mist of grass cuttings and fumes.
We also bought shitloads of paint to decorate our hall and stairs. We decorated them in a bit of a hurry when we first moved in, because it was all so depressing. The walls were covered with what had once been rather nice paper, but over the 30 years it had been up, it had got discoloured and filthy. The paintwork was pale brown from years of heavy smoking in the house, and everything was slightly sticky.
So, we stripped the walls, scrubbed the paintwork, which was actually white (mostly), put up thick lining paper and slapped on a couple of coats of pale pink emulsion. Worked a treat, and really warmed up the place.
Eight years on, the rest of the house has been decorated to a much higher standard, usually by professionals, and the hall and stairs now look, frankly, shit.
There is now a collection of tins of paint, new brushes and rollers waiting to be deployed. The plan was that Mr WithaY and I would do it* over Easter.
However, today, during the course of a visit to Father-in-Law WithaY, Mr WithaY mentioned ever-so-casually that he was going fishing all day on Friday. Oh, and diving all day on Sunday. And he is away for work on Thursday evening.
Hmmm.
So, looks like I will be getting on with the decorating on my own, which is a bit of a shame, because I am of the "fuck it, near enough" school of decorating, and Mr WithaY belongs to the "micro-millimetre perfect" school of decorating.
*fnar
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Dedicated follower of fashion
Went to see my lovely Mum today, and she is much, much better. Hurrah!
Mr WithaY and I went into town for a wander about and to pick up a few things, as it was such a beautiful day.
There were loads of buskers out, including a lad with a truly fine singing voice, albeit rather quiet, a man playing a harp, and a chap playing some mean slide guitar. We watched the slide guitarist for a bit, and I said "I wish I could do that."
Mr WithaY, instead of riposting with "Give him a biscuit and he might let you," instead opined that I ought to buy a slide* and thus improve my picking no end.
"Why would having a slide improve my guitar picking?" I asked him, interested.
"Well, it just would," he replied, in his 'I can't believe you're questioning me when I am so obviously correct' voice.
When pressed, he had no logical reason for this position, but instead reverted to his fallback argument of "Well, it would just make you funkier." Which, frankly, he uses far too much, and I have no answer to.
We walked down to the motorcycle shop and he drooled over a huge Kawasaki tourer, only five grand, ooh, let's get three.
We wandered into the teeny arcade opposite the bike shop and saw a disturbing slideshow in the window of the nail bar place. All the hands and feet in it looked horribly deformed, like an advert for arthritis relief medication or hammer toe surgery. They all had gorgeous painted nails, though.
We had a damn fine lunch in the Chinese. £6.50 each for three courses. Bargain.
We saw two old women with pushchairs, each containing a big fat dog, cushions and an assortment of toys. Small expensive dogs in elegant handbags I can sort of understand. Huge scabby-looking tongue-lolling dogs laying in dilapidated pushchairs I can't.
Mind you, when every chic fashionista has one, boy will I feel stupid.
I bought a huge jar of giant chocolate buttons from Montezuma's. Marvellous. We sat and ate some whilst watching "Live at the Apollo", in which Jack Dee was entertaining and the other comedians weren't.
On the way home we stopped off in Salisbury and went to have supper in ASK. I had butterfly king prawns as a starter, probably the nicest I have ever had. Very simple, very tasty.
A small group of teenagers came and sat at the table next to us. One of the girls was celebrating her sixteenth birthday so they were all dressed up to the nines. The boys were plastered in hair gel and Lynx, draped in huge cheap bling, the girls were all giggly and pretty in their best going-out clothes.
It was sweet, but boy did it make me feel old.
Over dinner we** made plans for re-landscaping the front garden, and discussed which European cities were likely to get a visit from us for a long weekend this summer.
All good, positive, life-affirming things. Hurrah.
*for my guitar, not to play on in the back garden. That sounds more fun, frankly.
**Me and Mr WithaY. I wasn't interested in the teenagers' opinions.
Mr WithaY and I went into town for a wander about and to pick up a few things, as it was such a beautiful day.
There were loads of buskers out, including a lad with a truly fine singing voice, albeit rather quiet, a man playing a harp, and a chap playing some mean slide guitar. We watched the slide guitarist for a bit, and I said "I wish I could do that."
Mr WithaY, instead of riposting with "Give him a biscuit and he might let you," instead opined that I ought to buy a slide* and thus improve my picking no end.
"Why would having a slide improve my guitar picking?" I asked him, interested.
"Well, it just would," he replied, in his 'I can't believe you're questioning me when I am so obviously correct' voice.
When pressed, he had no logical reason for this position, but instead reverted to his fallback argument of "Well, it would just make you funkier." Which, frankly, he uses far too much, and I have no answer to.
We walked down to the motorcycle shop and he drooled over a huge Kawasaki tourer, only five grand, ooh, let's get three.
We wandered into the teeny arcade opposite the bike shop and saw a disturbing slideshow in the window of the nail bar place. All the hands and feet in it looked horribly deformed, like an advert for arthritis relief medication or hammer toe surgery. They all had gorgeous painted nails, though.
We had a damn fine lunch in the Chinese. £6.50 each for three courses. Bargain.
We saw two old women with pushchairs, each containing a big fat dog, cushions and an assortment of toys. Small expensive dogs in elegant handbags I can sort of understand. Huge scabby-looking tongue-lolling dogs laying in dilapidated pushchairs I can't.
Mind you, when every chic fashionista has one, boy will I feel stupid.
I bought a huge jar of giant chocolate buttons from Montezuma's. Marvellous. We sat and ate some whilst watching "Live at the Apollo", in which Jack Dee was entertaining and the other comedians weren't.
On the way home we stopped off in Salisbury and went to have supper in ASK. I had butterfly king prawns as a starter, probably the nicest I have ever had. Very simple, very tasty.
A small group of teenagers came and sat at the table next to us. One of the girls was celebrating her sixteenth birthday so they were all dressed up to the nines. The boys were plastered in hair gel and Lynx, draped in huge cheap bling, the girls were all giggly and pretty in their best going-out clothes.
It was sweet, but boy did it make me feel old.
Over dinner we** made plans for re-landscaping the front garden, and discussed which European cities were likely to get a visit from us for a long weekend this summer.
All good, positive, life-affirming things. Hurrah.
*for my guitar, not to play on in the back garden. That sounds more fun, frankly.
**Me and Mr WithaY. I wasn't interested in the teenagers' opinions.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Little things
Today I have been mostly fed up, and slightly weepy, but that might be because I have woken up at 0530 for the last few days, and it is a pain in the arse, frankly, being this tired.
Was in London today, but lacked the energy to walk anywhere. I only managed to drag my weary carcass across Westminster Bridge before catching the Tube this morning, and then copped out and got the Tube all the way back to Waterloo this evening.
Remembering that there is very little actual food in the house, I decided to call into the supermarket before I came home. In my head, this meant that I would eat a proper supper tonight and have food in the house tomorrow so I can eat sensibly during the day.
I fantasised about picking up a hot roasted chicken and some fresh salad, maybe with some fresh pineapple afterwards. However, at 8pm on a Tuesday night, the supermarket has sold all the hot chickens, cleaned the rotisserie, and is trying to flog off the rock hard baguettes to groups of young Scouse squaddies.
It is not interested in providing a well-chosen and dainty evening repast to a woman who has been travelling for fucking hours.
Supper this evening actually consisted of 2 Scotch eggs, a handful of little tiny cherry tomatoes, and a big glass of flat fizzy water with some lemongrass squash in it. I am waiting for a knock on the door from Jamie Oliver and the food police as I type.
Anyhoo, I was mooching around the place with my little hand basket, biting my lip and feeling sorry for myself, composing a sad, sad blog post in my head about how cruel everything is, and how unbearable, and how awful and lonely, and how much I hate my life. I was in some danger of going emo.
I rounded a corner into the MEAT aisle, and there in front of me was a large, rotund chap dressed in the height of West Wiltshire chic.
He had on a pair of baggy blue tracksuit bottoms, or possibly overalls, tucked into workboots liberally splattered with crud. His huge saggy torso was encased in an ancient, equally saggy, green sweatshirt, also crud-encrusted. Topping off the ensemble was a jaunty black woollen hat, looking much like the teat of a baby's bottle, perched high on his head, emphasising his red cheeks and shiny jowls.
I sighed heavily, thinking how terrible life is when you are faced with such things.
As I dragged myself past him, possibly swinging my arms like Kevin the Teenager, I heard the opening bars of "Oi've got a braaan new comboin aaaarvester". I shook my head, clearly overtired and imagining Wurzels songs in the middle of the supermarket.
But no. Mr West Wiltshire Fashion reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out his mobile, and answered it with a huge grin on his face, after letting the Wurzels get almost all the way through the first verse.
It made me laugh out loud, just as soon as I got round the corner, and suddenly life felt less like a hideous struggle.
Other news: Mr WithaY called from his windswept hostel in the remote Welsh countryside, which was lovely. I am missing him very much, and plan to hide his passport when he comes home, just in case. And possibly all his trousers.
Was in London today, but lacked the energy to walk anywhere. I only managed to drag my weary carcass across Westminster Bridge before catching the Tube this morning, and then copped out and got the Tube all the way back to Waterloo this evening.
Remembering that there is very little actual food in the house, I decided to call into the supermarket before I came home. In my head, this meant that I would eat a proper supper tonight and have food in the house tomorrow so I can eat sensibly during the day.
I fantasised about picking up a hot roasted chicken and some fresh salad, maybe with some fresh pineapple afterwards. However, at 8pm on a Tuesday night, the supermarket has sold all the hot chickens, cleaned the rotisserie, and is trying to flog off the rock hard baguettes to groups of young Scouse squaddies.
It is not interested in providing a well-chosen and dainty evening repast to a woman who has been travelling for fucking hours.
Supper this evening actually consisted of 2 Scotch eggs, a handful of little tiny cherry tomatoes, and a big glass of flat fizzy water with some lemongrass squash in it. I am waiting for a knock on the door from Jamie Oliver and the food police as I type.
Anyhoo, I was mooching around the place with my little hand basket, biting my lip and feeling sorry for myself, composing a sad, sad blog post in my head about how cruel everything is, and how unbearable, and how awful and lonely, and how much I hate my life. I was in some danger of going emo.
I rounded a corner into the MEAT aisle, and there in front of me was a large, rotund chap dressed in the height of West Wiltshire chic.
He had on a pair of baggy blue tracksuit bottoms, or possibly overalls, tucked into workboots liberally splattered with crud. His huge saggy torso was encased in an ancient, equally saggy, green sweatshirt, also crud-encrusted. Topping off the ensemble was a jaunty black woollen hat, looking much like the teat of a baby's bottle, perched high on his head, emphasising his red cheeks and shiny jowls.
I sighed heavily, thinking how terrible life is when you are faced with such things.
As I dragged myself past him, possibly swinging my arms like Kevin the Teenager, I heard the opening bars of "Oi've got a braaan new comboin aaaarvester". I shook my head, clearly overtired and imagining Wurzels songs in the middle of the supermarket.
But no. Mr West Wiltshire Fashion reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out his mobile, and answered it with a huge grin on his face, after letting the Wurzels get almost all the way through the first verse.
It made me laugh out loud, just as soon as I got round the corner, and suddenly life felt less like a hideous struggle.
Other news: Mr WithaY called from his windswept hostel in the remote Welsh countryside, which was lovely. I am missing him very much, and plan to hide his passport when he comes home, just in case. And possibly all his trousers.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Grumpy
I am fed up. I hate Mr WithaY being away, and I am missing him hugely.
My lovely Mum has had a couple of days where she has not been doing as well as we had hoped, so that is upsetting, and I feel really low.
Still, my back is much better.
Other news: The new light I bought for the sitting room is a piece of crap, and looks awful. That was twenty quid well spent then.
My lovely Mum has had a couple of days where she has not been doing as well as we had hoped, so that is upsetting, and I feel really low.
Still, my back is much better.
Other news: The new light I bought for the sitting room is a piece of crap, and looks awful. That was twenty quid well spent then.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
Ready
I am writing this wrapped in fifty layers of fleece, mittens, ear muffs, gaiters, galoshes and an oven glove on my nose.
We are expecting snow. Up to 5 centimetres, possibly, which is about, ooh, two inches I think?
Mr WithaY has stacked logs next to the fireplace, and I have replenished all the candle holders, so when we get a power cut (as we do whenever there is the slightest hint of dodgy weather), it will at least be possible to keep warm and see where the major obstacles are around the place.
We're going over to the nursing home in a bit to visit Father-in-law WithaY. I'd better pack the Emergency Bag* just in case. That five mile journey could be tricky if the snow really settles in.
Well, alright. It isn't that cold. And it isn't snowing.
Yet.
But the forecast says tomorrow will be horrific, so I am going to boot up my work laptop later and if nobody has sneaked any meetings into my diary for tomorrow, will work at home. It seems crazy to travel 150 miles in crappy weather to do stuff I could do in my study, wearing my slippers.
Other news: Had a little get-together last night, with some of our lovely local mates, which was fun. Quite quiet and well-behaved, as these things go, but that was partly becasue a large number of the guests had partied a little too hard on Friday night at the pub. Much cider was drunk, and many bad jokes were told. Marvellous.
A guitar was brought in, massively out of tune, so I did my best Nanny Ogg impression, did a poor job of tuning it, and played some songs. People sang**, there was even a spattering of applause from a group who had been enjoying a quiet meal in the bar. As they left (quite soon afterwards, now I come to think about it), they all said "Thank you, very nice." Heh. Yay me.
On Saturday morning, despite slight headaches, we ventured into Salisbury to transact high finance. Once the dull money stuff was done, I bought myself:
1) A new rucksack for commuting with, bigger than the one I have at the moment, so suitable for overnight stays as well as daily travel;
2) A little black handbag which is a bit more appropriate for carrying round the office, and which fits nicely inside the new rucksack, cleverly reducing the number of items I have to carry while I stride through the metropolis;
3) A pretty pink, cream and grey silk scarf from Accessorize which will work with many of my dull suits;
4) A set of short knitting needles and some funky wool to make Mr WithaY a scarf while I am on the train. Long needles are too unwieldy, but these are short so should be ok for commuting knitting;
I also went to get my engagement ring back from the menders, where it has been languishing since well before Christmas. I was quite apprehensive because they were remaking the whole thing, and I was really worried that they might not make it look the same as it had before.
I need not have worried. They have done a superb job, and the diamond looked fantastic. They had cleaned it, and the resetting meant it looked HUGE! Hurrah!
However, when I tried it on, it was much too small.
They had made it the same size that it was, but I hadn't realised how much too small it was for me while I was wearing it. If that makes sense. Anyhoo, when I tried it on, it was much too tight, and I realised that my wedding ring is also too small now.
I have been wearing my engagement ring for 21 years, and my wedding ring for 15, so no great shock there, as I have increased in mass significantly since I was 21.
Sooo, they are both off being sized, and I should get them back in a few weeks. Feels very odd being without them.
And now, a story with a happy ending:
Last weekend I went to the music shop and asked about acquiring an electric Rickenbacker 12-string. In blue.
I found out many sad things....
There is a 2 to 3 year waiting list for a new Rickenbacker 12 string, the prices are going up and up all the time, thanks to the dollar/pound relationship breakdown, and that if I ordered one now I would not be able to fix a price, and would have to pay whatever they asked me when it was ready. So, pants.
However, the man in the shop was very nice, and said he'd do some ringing round of dealers and so on, to see what was available out there. He said he;d call me back.
He called me back on Friday, to tell me that he had some good news and some bad news. The bad news was that the model I wanted, in the colour I wanted was not to be found in the UK. He'd even been on EBay to see if he could find me one, to no avail.
But the good news was that one of his customers had called him that morning to say he wanted to trade in a guitar for a new, rare model which was in the shop. Guess what he was trading in?
Guess what I have in my sitting room, right now?
It's wonderful. It sounds like the 1960s.
*Torch, chocolate, map, de-icer, more chocolate, bottle of water, book, extra chocolate. Everyone should have an Emergency Bag.
**I mentioned that we'd all been drinking, yes?
Picture nicked from http://www.rickenbacker.com/
We are expecting snow. Up to 5 centimetres, possibly, which is about, ooh, two inches I think?
Mr WithaY has stacked logs next to the fireplace, and I have replenished all the candle holders, so when we get a power cut (as we do whenever there is the slightest hint of dodgy weather), it will at least be possible to keep warm and see where the major obstacles are around the place.
We're going over to the nursing home in a bit to visit Father-in-law WithaY. I'd better pack the Emergency Bag* just in case. That five mile journey could be tricky if the snow really settles in.
Well, alright. It isn't that cold. And it isn't snowing.
Yet.
But the forecast says tomorrow will be horrific, so I am going to boot up my work laptop later and if nobody has sneaked any meetings into my diary for tomorrow, will work at home. It seems crazy to travel 150 miles in crappy weather to do stuff I could do in my study, wearing my slippers.
Other news: Had a little get-together last night, with some of our lovely local mates, which was fun. Quite quiet and well-behaved, as these things go, but that was partly becasue a large number of the guests had partied a little too hard on Friday night at the pub. Much cider was drunk, and many bad jokes were told. Marvellous.
A guitar was brought in, massively out of tune, so I did my best Nanny Ogg impression, did a poor job of tuning it, and played some songs. People sang**, there was even a spattering of applause from a group who had been enjoying a quiet meal in the bar. As they left (quite soon afterwards, now I come to think about it), they all said "Thank you, very nice." Heh. Yay me.
On Saturday morning, despite slight headaches, we ventured into Salisbury to transact high finance. Once the dull money stuff was done, I bought myself:
1) A new rucksack for commuting with, bigger than the one I have at the moment, so suitable for overnight stays as well as daily travel;
2) A little black handbag which is a bit more appropriate for carrying round the office, and which fits nicely inside the new rucksack, cleverly reducing the number of items I have to carry while I stride through the metropolis;
3) A pretty pink, cream and grey silk scarf from Accessorize which will work with many of my dull suits;
4) A set of short knitting needles and some funky wool to make Mr WithaY a scarf while I am on the train. Long needles are too unwieldy, but these are short so should be ok for commuting knitting;
I also went to get my engagement ring back from the menders, where it has been languishing since well before Christmas. I was quite apprehensive because they were remaking the whole thing, and I was really worried that they might not make it look the same as it had before.
I need not have worried. They have done a superb job, and the diamond looked fantastic. They had cleaned it, and the resetting meant it looked HUGE! Hurrah!
However, when I tried it on, it was much too small.
They had made it the same size that it was, but I hadn't realised how much too small it was for me while I was wearing it. If that makes sense. Anyhoo, when I tried it on, it was much too tight, and I realised that my wedding ring is also too small now.
I have been wearing my engagement ring for 21 years, and my wedding ring for 15, so no great shock there, as I have increased in mass significantly since I was 21.
Sooo, they are both off being sized, and I should get them back in a few weeks. Feels very odd being without them.
And now, a story with a happy ending:
Last weekend I went to the music shop and asked about acquiring an electric Rickenbacker 12-string. In blue.
I found out many sad things....
There is a 2 to 3 year waiting list for a new Rickenbacker 12 string, the prices are going up and up all the time, thanks to the dollar/pound relationship breakdown, and that if I ordered one now I would not be able to fix a price, and would have to pay whatever they asked me when it was ready. So, pants.
However, the man in the shop was very nice, and said he'd do some ringing round of dealers and so on, to see what was available out there. He said he;d call me back.
He called me back on Friday, to tell me that he had some good news and some bad news. The bad news was that the model I wanted, in the colour I wanted was not to be found in the UK. He'd even been on EBay to see if he could find me one, to no avail.
But the good news was that one of his customers had called him that morning to say he wanted to trade in a guitar for a new, rare model which was in the shop. Guess what he was trading in?
Guess what I have in my sitting room, right now?
It's wonderful. It sounds like the 1960s.
*Torch, chocolate, map, de-icer, more chocolate, bottle of water, book, extra chocolate. Everyone should have an Emergency Bag.
**I mentioned that we'd all been drinking, yes?
Picture nicked from http://www.rickenbacker.com/
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