July 27, 2013

Happy 22nd

 

 

Days lurch and trundle their own frelling way.  We were going out to dinner tonight because it’s our (first) 22nd anniversary* and I know I got up late** but somehow the day GOT AWAAAAAAAAAAAAAY from me . . . and having brought the hurtling second shift home and discovering I had TEN MINUTES to get dressed to go out, came pelting panting back downstairs again eleven minutes later . . . and Pooka started barking.***  It was the taxi service saying that the taxi despatched to convey us had broken down and it would be at least another fifteen minutes before they could get another one to us.  Oh.  Frell.  I could have hurtled farther.  I could have done more watering.†  I could have worn something more interesting.  Meanwhile Peter had already left the mews to go stand in the road, waiting to be picked up, and hadn’t taken his mobile with him.  If the wind had been just slightly more in the right direction he would have heard me cursing his name without any technological enhancement necessary.  I rang the restaurant.  I paced the floor.  I kept covering up the frelling hellterror’s crate because she responds to jumpiness in the hellgoddess by barking and only Pooka is allowed to bark in this household.  And uncovering her again because it’s too hot to leave her swaddled for long.††

But it’s cooled off a lot, for the moment.  I took a fetching little jacket with me to the restaurant . . . and then it was UNBELIEVABLY HOT in the restaurant.  Arrrrgh.  It’s not that we didn’t know it’s not air conditioned, it’s our standard top-end††† restaurant and we go there two or three times a year.  But there was no cross-ventilation despite open windows and the fans were dragging their blades through the thick air like stirring custard.  Even our teach-Robin-to-play bridge hands were possessed by demons.  Fortunately it was a small table so when they brought our food we had to clear the cards away.

But the champagne was gloriously cold.  And twenty-two years is twenty-two years.  And worth celebrating.‡  Yaay us.

* * *

*The second one is in January.  This is our the-meeting-that-counts anniversary, when I went to pick up my slight acquaintance, that rather odd fellow, Peter Dickinson, at the Bangor, Maine, airport, having offered to show him a bit of Maine.  Saw him walk through the door^, blinked once or twice and went, oops.  The rest is history.  Six months later we got married.

^ It’s a small airport, or it was in those days, and you just walk across the tarmac from your plane to the door beside the luggage carrel, where if you’re very very lucky your luggage will eventually appear.

** When do I ever not get up late??  Note that virtuously not reading off the iPad^ and adhering dutifully to hard copy is not having any effect on the sleep deficit.

^ Although I have bad news:  I bought a waterproof envelope thingy for Astarte . . . and it works just fine.  So I can lie in the bath and read digitally.  Rats.  Mistake.  Although if I’m going to make a habit of it I’m going to have also to buy one of those horrible cross-bath platform things to rest her on:  an iPad weighs, after the first ten minutes or so.  But the Horrible Cross-Bath platform things are usually crappy cheap wire and hideous.  We had one at the old house which Peter wouldn’t let me get rid of, like he ever read in the bath, or drank tea/coffee/whisky or burned a candle or whatever the frell you put in all those stupid pockets, and I was THRILLED to get rid of it when we moved.+  Maybe they’ve improved.  Maybe I can just use a plank or something. . . .

+Hey.  You take your thrills where you can find them.

*** Yes, my iPhone ringtone is a barking dog.  The hellterror reacts less often than she used to.  I may not have to change it after all.  Meanwhile my landline is dead.  I have no idea.  Siiiiiiigh.  I really hate BT.  They’ve been dorking me around for as long as I’ve lived here, although dead is a little extreme.

† We’re supposed to have torrential rains tomorrow.  That must be making everybody in this area who’s planning to get married tomorrow wildly happy.  Including the party I’m supposed to be ringing for at Forza.  I will probably get a lot of knitting done waiting for the bride, who left her umbrella in Berkshire and has gone back to retrieve it.  When it’s time to go to my monks, I go, whether she’s arrived yet and been rung for or not.

†† Also, the more she’s out of her crate, the more she thinks she should be out.  And while I can knit or write emails with her loose about the place, I can’t work with her cruising for excitement.  But this means that every time a hellhound comes out of his crate, at will, for a stretch or a drink or a mosey, there is an eruption of protest from another corner:  Hey!  His door is open!  My door is closed!  My door could be open too!  In fact I’m sure it should be open!  I’m sure you just haven’t noticed that it’s inappropriately closed so let me draw your attention to this unfortunate fact so you can RECTIFY it at your EARLIEST CONVENIENCE!  Let me rephrase that:  at your earliest!  Never mind the convenience part!

††† And while we huddle around the bottom of that top end, it still caters to people who want to spend £150 on a bottle of champagne to go with their single caviar canapé for £65.

‡ And furthermore I sang for Oisin today.  No, I haven’t, in yonks and yonks.  Possibly not since the hellcritter digestion crisis began.  I didn’t need the extra dratblasted strain.  The problem with Oisin, as I keep saying, is that he’s not only a professional accompanist, he’s a friend, and I don’t like torturing my friends.  Nadia, this last week, said that if he were someone else I’d just find different excuses.  This is, I think, only about half correct . . . but still.  Probably half.  So I took some music along today and after Oisin scraped himself off the floor where he had fallen in astonishment . . . It was not too bad.  I lost less of my voice from terror, cowardice and not-good-enough-ness than previously.  Nadia keeps reminding me there’s anywhere from a six month to a (probably) eighteen month lag between what I can do in a lesson with her tweaking me and anything or anywhere else, and poor Oisin counts, in my tiny snivelling mind, as performance, and with my personality?  Performance?^

But it was not too bad.  I can probably even do it again. . . .

^ Remind me why I think I want to join a choir I can make some difference to?

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