Killer Thursdays
Something is going to have to be done about Thursdays. The present formulation is not going to work long term. At least not if I’m going to make my century and get the telegram from the Queen.*
The insanity of the day has been significantly aggravated by the insanity of the weather. We’ve had close to two inches of rain this week—yaay and all that, we need it and we need more like it—but it keeps coming in these alarming swoops and slams. It bucketed down on Sunday and has been spitting and drizzling with the occasional brief, badly timed downpour** the last few days. Today it’s like it cranked up the volume. Beautiful blue sunny—CLOUDBURST—beautiful blue sunny—THUMPING CLOUDBURST—beautiful blue sunny, gentle breezes, chirping birds fa la la la la—FALLING WALL OF FRELLING WATER. Cheez.*** While we were ringing handbells we had the full range: it was cloudy and doomy when my partners in crime arrived, then it turned so bright and summery and gorgeous you wanted to throw down† your handbells and rush out into the garden†† . . . and then it turned that creepy, end-of-the-world yellow-black so I had to turn the lights on and then WHAM. MORE WATER.
And, speaking of handbells . . . oh dear. Niall’s been on holiday and Colin and I didn’t get our butts in gear to find an alternative third, so we haven’t rung handbells in a fortnight. And . . . we rang like it had been six months or six hundred years. Even Niall was making mistakes.††† We eventually gave up on Cambridge entirely and retreated to various humble bob minory things. The chocolate biscuits during tea break were the best part. Whimper.‡
I had to turn the other two out promptly however—on previous form when we’re having a bad night we often go on a bit longer—because I now have to attend choir practise after Thursday handbells—and I have to fit in a final hellhound hurtle first.‡‡ Blearggh. I got to Muddlehampton on time this week and could slink in and sit in the back.‡‡‡—having checked with Ravenel first that I wouldn’t be sitting in the sacred spot where the abstruse and anagogic Turkey Vulture of Excellent Relative Pitch manifests on a good night.§
We had a better turn-out this week so I have perhaps a slightly better idea of what I’m getting into. The good news: I am not the best, but I’m not the worst either. Supposing I start attending regularly§§ and get a bit more of a handle on the feverish sweat of angst and terror etc, this should prove to be something I can both do and, you know, contribute to. And I actually was going ‘bom’ and ‘plink’ off the dranglefabbing beat tonight—which it must be said was not true of everyone§§§. Ravenel at one point leaped up from the piano and stalked off into the darkness, seeking, no doubt, for some superfluous peasant he could grind to dust and relieve his feelings. The bad news is that we spent most of the session on the one song I really HATE . . . and now I can’t get the freller out of my head. . . . Clearly more chocolate must be applied.
* * *
* If she’s still doing telegrams by then. If there are still telegrams by then. When I’m 100 the Queen will be about 125, I think, but at present rate, hey, she’s good for it. But will there still be telegrams? Landline telephones are already on their way out.^ Maybe the Queen sends cards. I admit I’m not paying close attention since my turn isn’t for another forty-two years. Also there is a vulgar rumour that they’re going to raise the age you have to be before the Queen congratulates you for being a stubborn old git because too many people are making 100. Pardon me, she’s the wealthiest woman in the world, she can hire another secretary and buy a few more stamps. The Royal Mail can use the revenue.^^
^ Some of this, I feel, is BT’s own stupid fault, for being gratuitously hopeless.
^^ The Royal Mail is pretty gratuitously hopeless too, but I have more of a soft spot for it. I like the little red vans with the Royal Mail logo and the crown. It’s so British. The British Telecom vans are just . . . vans.
** You’ve been watching out the window for hours at black clouds scampering back and forth and finally decide fine, whatever, you have to get the hellhounds out, and . . . do I really have to tell you how this story ends?
*** This is also hard on your delphiniums, and tends to make your most brutally and heinously gigantic rosebushes try to lie down.
† Well, lay. Tenderly.
†† And start looking for a winch with which to attempt to put your roses in order.
††† See? Holidays are bad for you.
‡ Okay, I also enjoyed moaning to Niall about the Trials of a Deputy Ringing Master. I didn’t like his smile much though.
‡‡ Fortunately it had stopped raining again.
‡‡‡ St Frideswide is a typical tiny old English village church—although its stained glass windows are pretty fabulous—with walls about as thick as I am tall and an unnecessarily generously vaulted ceiling, which among other things means cold. I was already wearing one of my nice little cashmere cardis over my t shirt and I still never took my big heavy black leather jacket off all evening—despite the feverish sweat of angst and terror. I am not looking forward to Thursday evenings later in the year. The membership stuff they give you even includes a chirpy little paragraph saying that the church does get quite chilly in winter and to dress up warm. Maybe I’ll finally buy one of those battery-run heated waistcoats. I will certainly get out my sheepskin shoe liners and my polypropylene toe guards.
§ Apparently it manifests farther up the nave.
§§ The Forbidden Planet PEGASUS signing is on a Thursday.
§§§ Which, note, is very confusing for someone who’s spent an embarrassing amount of time at home going tap BOM, tap BOM, tap PLINK, tap PLINK.
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