November 18, 2013

The day after

 

I’m a little . . . slow today.  I almost never drink alcohol any more which means that when I do, um, the earth moves.  So to speak.  And I had three glasses of champagne last night:  my LIMIT is two.  Well it wasn’t my fault.  Peter barely drinks any more either, so we asked for one glass of champagne and one empty glass, in which we would decant a few mouthfuls so that he could toast me*.  They brought us two glasses of champagne and then made Peter’s complimentary when we explained they’d made a mistake.  Well I couldn’t waste it, could I?  The problem being that it was already there, and later on, when they came around and asked me if I wanted a second glass . . . the answer had to be yes, didn’t it?

This is why taxis were invented.  It’s also why we only go out seriously about twice a year.

I realised the enormity of my peril tottering out to the taxi, which involves stairs down from the restaurant door.**   So hellhounds got a rather brisker and more elaborate final hurtle than usual and I drank a double potful of peppermint tea.  And I don’t have anything tacky and vulgar like a headache today but I am . . . a little slow.  Although I nearly survived a touch of Stedman Triples on the two this afternoon.  <geekspeak alert>  I assumed we’d ring a plain course since I am even less safe on the two than the treble, and then frelling Frelling called a bob and I got through it and someone else went wrong.  Fine, I thought, it’s Sunday service, if we try again this time it will be a plain course.  NO.  WRONG.  And I got through two frelling affected bobs this time before . . . I came unglued making the bob and forgot to go in slow.  RATBAGS.  I ALMOST DID IT.  But even almost, when you’re talking about a touch of Stedman Triples for service and especially the day after your birthday when you’re feeling a little slow . . . is worth celebrating.

Or that’s my version.

 * * *

* Only toasts in champagne really count.  Even a good red wine is not an acceptable substitute^.  Anything but champagne is like ringing a false quarter [peal]^^.  Even if the method was flawlessly called and struck for the entire duration it doesn’t count and you don’t get to send it in to be published in THE RINGING WORLD.

^ Peter’s thing is big fat leathery Rhone wines, and when I still drank enough ever to be willing to waste a few alcoholic tokens on anything that wasn’t champagne I liked it too.

^^ You can ring a false peal but that doesn’t bear thinking about.  A quarter is only forty five minutes or thereabouts which I think is quite long enough AND I WANT IT TO COUNT.  A peal is three hours, frequently plus,+ and three-plus hours of intense concentration, not to mention the standing up and yanking on a rope part, and it doesn’t COUNT?  I would totally take up bungie jumping after a disaster like that.

+ I’ve said this before:  I don’t plan ever to attempt to ring a full peal:  I haven’t got the stamina.  Fortunately I don’t even want to.  It’s funny though, one woman’s manifestation of madness is another woman’s achievement and satisfaction.  I imagine there are a lot of peal ringers out there who would consider Street Pastoring a completely bonkers way of ruining your circadian rhythm.#

# The perils, speaking of perils, of being a Christian.  I’ve also told you that at St Margaret’s evening service, communion is passed around.  The priest starts the basket and the goblet at one end of the front row, and then that person turns and offers it to the next person, and so on.  But you break the bread for and offer the goblet to your neighbour, and you say a few words—these tend to vary but I think everyone says something—as you do it.   I don’t actually like this system;  communion is SERIOUS~ and I want a professional in charge, not us kittle cattle.  But the saying of a few words as you pass the wine is somewhat dependent on the bread having NOT instantly adhered to the roof of your mouth with a superglue-like tenacity.

Tonight it barnacled on like it was going for the Olympic gold in attachment.

Fortunately you’re not expected to mumble your words very loudly and of course I have a funny accent.

~ Although at least us Anglicans don’t have to believe in transubstantiation.  Brrrrrrrr.

~~ Although there may be something in the trans-something theory because I have noticed that all bread used for the Eucharist takes on an uncanny genius for cleaving valiantly to the roof of your mouth—the Wonder bread squares of my generic Protestant childhood, the standard tasteless church wafers and the somewhat variable productions of St Margaret’s.  I’m sure there’s an important theological point here.

**  Aggravated by the ninety-seven yards of skirt on my dress and the fact that my lady shoes did, in fact, have teeny-weeny heels, although everything has heels if you wear All Stars all the rest of your life.

The dress with the extreme skirt is my favourite dress in the universe and I haven’t worn it in two years because . . . the moths got it.  I won’t use standard laboratory-made toxic chemicals for anything if I can help it, partly for green reasons, partly because of the ME, and cedar oil does work against moths but you have to keep topping it up, and there are no balls in my life that I don’t take my eye off some time, and this includes the generously reapplying cedar oil to the animal fibres in the cottage attic ball.  It’s still my favourite dress, however, even with moth holes, and I finally thought FRELL it, it’s pretty dim in the restaurant and if we pay the bill who cares if the old dame’s dress had moth holes?  Very Ms. Havisham.    So I wore it.  And I was thinking, next time, Doc Martens and then it becomes a look, especially with my getting-on-toward-disintegration black leather jacket.  I’ll have a thoughtful stare at my All Stars shelves but I think for this purpose I need proper stomping boots.  I have some flowered Docs that I think might do the trick. . . .

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