Uggggh
Don’t forget. The New Arcadia Bell Restoration Fund auction/sale is now live: http://robinmckinleysblog.com/bells/ *
So, the sale/auction is up** and all I have to do is sit back and watch the orders roll in, right? WRONG. In the first place I’m writing my brains out*** and in the second place I have to worry that there won’t be too little/too much response. Too little will make me look foolish among my bell ringers† and too much will force me to grow an extra pair of hands.††
And . . . meanwhile . . . I have FLU. How frelling unfrellingfair is that (frelling)? I’ve been rather achier and painier this week than usual, and one of the ill-natured afreets that stalk me is the possibility that I’ll get to the point that I can’t control my rheumatism by diet any more so it was a somewhat perverse relief when the headache and the sore throat started, followed by the prickly skin that means ‘fever’. I left home tower bell practise EARLY last night. Shock. Horror. I might conceivably not have gone at all, but Vicky was away and I Had the Keys. I think I’ve told you before that breaking into St Radegund when it’s locked up is an operation like something out of a John Le Carre novel. It’s even more interesting when you’re seeing double.
And then because fate is like that I had a wedding to ring today. I didn’t know I was ill till yesterday, or Niall could have taken charge of the keys for practise last night—and you don’t pull out of a wedding ring the day before unless you’re positively strapped down in an oxygen tent. And I am still walking, as hellhounds can testify. I comforted myself, as I tottered down Main Street toward the church this afternoon, that Monty was ringing, which meant we’d stick to call changes. I could probably manage call changes. There was a slight exhale of held breath when my head appeared at the top of the ladder into the ringing chamber.††† I suspect I probably looked like a woman on her way to an oxygen tent last night—and there have been have been wedding rings when we were seven because the eighth was in hospital having the cast put on. I fear it was another pull-off that went BING BING BING CRASH CLANG CRUNCH. It wasn’t me! I was on the two! That second flawless bing was me!
. . . Okay. Bleaugh. I’m sure blog honour is satisfied. I’m going to go lie down again. I can feel the pressure of beady little hellhound gazes going, yes! Yes! Sofa! Yes!‡
* * *
*I apologise to my regular readers: you are going to get very tired of this nightly reminder. But not all of you are regular and I want to make sure that anyone just passing through any time between last night and the 9th of October who might buy or bid on something is prompted to do so.
** And there are already bids on the knitted rose dishcloth. Rats. That means I’m going to have to make the freller. Well, okay . . . it means I’ll finally finish something. Maybe this will inspire me on all those other projects.
*** When the report with the estimate on our bells came in and I was possessed by this deranged idea to have an auction, I thought the writing end of my life was proceeding according to plan.
† And the looking foolish is being taken care of more than adequately by ringing at the abbey. Which I am let off a repeat performance of for a fortnight because next week they’re having a special Gadzooks Gorblimey on Forty-Two practise. The week after that, however . . .
There is some comfort in the fact that everyone I’ve told my tale of woe to has said oh, Forzadeldestino, it’s a monster, don’t worry about it. The only difference is that there are the people who say ‘you get used to it’ and there are the people who say ‘I won’t ring there unless an entire squadron of angels beg me on bended knee’.
†† And the directions for growing an extra pair of hands are not at all clear. I don’t think they were translated from their original Betelgeusean very well. The technology is so old on Betelgeuse they probably don’t feel they have to explain concepts like ‘zork’ and ‘capatootle’ completely.
††† Roger, whom I would describe as insane, except that that epithet applies to all ringers^, has decided to take it as a Personal Affront that I joined the Muddlehamptons instead of St Radegund’s choir. Yo, honey, I don’t want the responsibility of being in a regular Sunday-service choir: it’s bad enough I have to fall out of bed for service ring. At least I can go home afterward and inject some more caffeine. The Muddlehamptons are free lance; they do concerts and special appearances^^; St Radegund’s choir is nailed to the service year. Today he said: We need sopranos!^^^ You could have come early and helped fill out the choir!
Today I wasn’t singing anything,# thank you very much, unless possibly you needed a croak among the basses, and Roger, you insane person, I don’t know the music. You could pick it up, he said. I looked at him. He looked at me. Well, I said##, if you ever know you’re going to be short some time, you could phone me. But you’d have to put me next to someone who knew what she was doing.
I may regret this. St Radegund may regret this. After all, they haven’t heard me yet.
^ Go on, one of you other ringers. Disagree. Go on, I dare you.
^^ For pity’s sake I’m going to have to think about what I’m wearing for that grazdibbled wedding in a fortnight. Usually, for concerts, I’m told, we wear The Uniform, which is a white blouse and long black skirt for women—men have to wear dark suits, white shirts and conservative ties. For this wedding I’m told we’re supposed to be Sunday best dressed. I don’t frelling do Sunday best. And somehow I don’t think the black leather mini would go over.
^^^ I’ve said to you already, haven’t I, what’s the deal with sopranos? Forty-odd years ago they were two a penny. As soon as you said ‘soprano’ choir directors wilted. If you wanted not to be invited to join a choir, say, ‘soprano’.
# Although I am wondering why, when I’ve clearly spent most of this week coming down with this thing, whatever it is, I had been singing better than usual. Whatever. I am going to be singing again by Monday. For one thing I have another delivery. I am now apparently the official courier between Oisin—who is also a purveyor of sheet music—and Nadia.
## Hey, I have flu. I’m not at my best and crankiest.
‡ I have to get up tomorrow morning.^ After ringing two last Sunday I certainly have to go to service ring.
^ This is another of those ‘don’t talk to me about the inherent Wisdom of the Body unless you want to get punched in the nose’ things. It would be nice if I could sleep. I’m ill, I need sleep, right? Tell that to the admin. Of course my admin is probably permanently torpedoed by the ME, but it’s exactly the same principle. ME, characterised by permanent exhaustion . . . and chronic insomnia. GAAAAAAAH.
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