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:

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. 

*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. 

Sock it to me

I was doing some domestic stuff earlier today, and was struck by the glory and proliferation of colour that is Mr WithaY's sock collection.

He used to wear tidy grey ones for work, designed to peek unobtrusively out twixt trouser and shoe.  Unless he was Doing Outdoor Things, which meant green socks, often huge jaggy long ones designed to prevent sneak attacks by weasels up your trouser-legs, or the type that you tie up at the knee with jaunty little knitted garters when you are out striding across the moor in your shooting breeches.

I'd just got used to it, I suppose. 

One day, when he was feeling particularly grumpy and fed up he came home from work with a bag from Dent's.  I asked what he'd been buying, as he tends to avoid going shopping, unless it's for Kit*.  Kit shopping can take all day, and he is as happy as a monkey in the chopped fruit section of the supermarket.

He emptied the bag out onto the table, and showed me.

Socks.

Not just any old socks, but jazzy socks.  Funky socks.  Hip hep-cat socks.  Socks with STYLE.  Socks with ATTITUDE.  Socks of many colours.

Apparently it was time to stop wearing dull socks, and from that day forth he was going to adorn his feet with the finest, brightest, least unobtrusive socks known to man.

He's doing pretty well so far.

And here's my entry for the Turner Prize:

It helps if you don't look directly at them.

By way of contrast, here is a snapshot into my sock drawer:

Please note the blue and (I think) pink socks, carefully arrowed.  Depressingly when you open my wardrobe, it is a riot of colour (except for the almost totally black "work clothes" end of the rail) but it seems my socks are undermining me.  Maybe I need to go shopping too.  At least my toenails are usually a nice bright colour:

 

Or a cute puppy is obviating the need for socks entirely:

Or I've got my mighty fine slippers on, so socks are unnecessary: 

Other news:  The chest infection seems to be on the wane, finally.  FINALLY.  It's been hanging around more or less permanently since early December, and I am utterly sick of it.  I'm still doing the horrible "cat with furball" noise every so often, but it is becoming less frequent, and the pain in my chest has pretty much gone. 

Other, other news: We are all anxious about Brother-in-Law, who has been taken ill unexpectedly, and is hopefully beginning to recover in hospital.  Love you all loads.

*Kit - all the bits and pieces that are absolutely essential for whatever activity is occupying him at that time.  Fishing equipment, boar-spear components, arcane and complicated diving accessories, Ray Mearswear, camping gadgets, all that stuff.

Sock it to me

Big excitement tonight on the train on the way home.

The guard made an announcement asking for "any qualified medical personnel to make their way to the middle of the train". A young chap leapt to his feet in the carriage I was in and dashed off down the train, while all the female passengers looked admiringly at him, and the blokes scowled enviously.

After a couple of minutes the guard came into our carriage asking for chocolate in a panicky way, which a lady was able to provide (not me, in case you were wondering). After another few minutes the guard announced over the intercom that we would be slightly delayed at Andover station because the train was being met by an ambulance.

So, probably a diabetic having some sort of problem, I assume, unless it was a heart attack and the guard was coincidentally really fancying a bag of Revels.

Anyway, the dashing young chap then came back to his seat and smiled modestly whenever anyone caught his eye. Hopefully whoever it was that was taken ill will make a speedy recovery.

Other news, on a semi-medical related note: I have a bloody huge blister on my left heel.

I wore my new bargain boots (half price at Jones, black, low heel, excellent with trousers, ideal in all respects till today) to work yesterday. Walked from Waterloo to Victoria with no problem at all. Comfy, non-slip, easy to scamper across roads in. Perfect.

Wore them today, did the same walk from Waterloo to Victoria, and ended up rubbing about five hundred inches of skin off my heel, right down to the bone. I think I might even have worn away some of the bone as well*. It's hard to tell.

I think it's because I had different socks on, and they were a bit thinner. Bloody annoying though.

So, I will be limping around at home tomorrow in my slippers, whimpering in between doing work on my laptop.

I like having a plan.

Mr WithaY, who is a complete star, made the most fab dinner this evening. It was a roast chicken which he had covered in rose harissa spices. Mmm-mmm. Highly recommended.

I did a huge traditional roast lamb lunch on Sunday while our mates were here. Which was nice. My Yorkshire puddings worked brilliantly, though I say so myself. Was great to see them again (the mates, not the puddings). Their mad spaniels performed the traditional "trashing of the WithaY rosemary bush" ceremony. It's like Morris dancing, but for dogs.




*Bloody well feels like it.