February 24, 2016

Things not to try at home or anywhere else

 

I set fire to my hair the other night. Oops.

It was very exciting for a second or two. I smelled that unmistakable frying-hair smell at the same time as I felt something odd happening on the top of my head—at the same time as Ruby, across the restaurant table from me, screamed, and we were descended on by several staff—at the same time as I jerked upright and away from the innocent candle sitting in its little dish next to the salt and pepper and a random flower in a vase.  I managed to burn my hand too by slapping at my hair while grabbing my heavy linen napkin* and whacking it down over my head a scant inch or two in front of Ruby diving across the table with hers.**

So I have a tiny frizzly patch on the crown of my head. My hair hasn’t been itself since menopause*** and while frizzle is never a good look I haven’t had a good hair day in about a decade and there is no effect† for it to ruin.

Don’t do bereavement, everyone.  It sucks on so many levels.  I’ve broken so much china I’m tempted to buy evil planet-destroying off-gassing melamine and get it over with.  Apparently I’m branching out into self-arson.

However.

Ruby was here nearly a week.†† We hung out.  We talked and talked and talked and talked AND TALKED AND TALKED.  We got through a surprising amount of therapeutic champagne.††† We had high tea at a tea shop that understands proper British high tea. Scones, clotted cream, the lot.  It’s surprising how few self-described tea shops do any more.  We made a special excursion to Winchester Cathedral because of the shop where you can get EVERYTHING branded with the Winchester Cathedral logo:  tea mugs, tea towels, tea bags, candles, pencils, note pads . . .  chocolate.  Ruby had to go home with gifts, after all.  I bought a Winchester Cathedral eraser. It’s shaped like a book and it’s PINK.‡  We went round to Niall’s and made her ring handbells.‡‡  We slogged across a lot of soggy Hampshire countryside with an assortment of hellcritters.  She’s another of my oldest and dearest friends.‡‡‡  And it was GREAT having her here.§  Except for the part about her going away again.  Sigh. . . . .

* * *

* It had never occurred to me before that restaurants provide heavy linen napkins just in case any of their customers are recently bereaved idiots who may set fire to themselves. If I’d done this at home I’d have had to hit myself with a hellhound.

** Staff were presumably approaching with a fire hose or possibly an order for committal to the nearest residential facility. Fortunately they restrained themselves.

*** SOME DAY I MUST change that mini icon photo of me with short hair that appears everywhere. I had short hair for about a year and a half when menopause made so much of it fall out I was seriously thinking about wigs.  But I couldn’t stand being fussed over having it cut every month or so UGGGGGGGH and after a while I just stopped having it cut which meant it . . . er . . . grew long again.  I’ve never had a lot of hair but it has just enough wiggle—I won’t dignify this by calling it curl—that it looks thicker than it is.  If I had any pride now I’d keep it short, but enough of it grew back in, still slightly wiggly, when I stopped having it cut that I’ve let it be long again, which it had been since my sophomore year of high school.  AND AT LEAST THIS MEANS NO ONE BUT ME IS MESSING WITH IT.

† Note however I had gone bolshie earlier in the evening when we were dressing up for our night out. I wore my black denim mini.^  Yes.  I’m sixty-three years old.  Sue me.  With heavy black tights I don’t even scare the horses.  Over Sixties of the World Still Wearing Miniskirts, UNITE.  Cross dressers welcome.  So long as you respect the heavy black tights obligation to society.

^ With the fabulous black and white rhinestone belt Peter gave me. Sigh.

†† I meant to write the official Three Houses blog before she arrived but various things got in the way, things like all the frelling emergencies that have been waiting, till you’re distracted by the final illness and death of your brutally, constantly, stunned-ly missed husband, to rain down on your head like—er—flaming arrows. The letter from the water board, for example, informing me that they have PROOF that I’m Niagara flipping Falls and are charging me accordingly^ and the letter from another brisk and competent branch of local government telling me that the loft conversion at Third House was never properly inspected—HOW MANY YEARS AGO WAS THAT AND THEY’RE ONLY JUST NOTICING?????—and they want all the paperwork I haven’t seen since I wrote the final cheque to the builders LIKE I CAN FIND ANYTHING RIGHT NOW, plus things like the ginormous wodge of paperwork from Her Majesty’s Customs, Revenue and Red Hot Poker^^ Service that arrived a few days ago and starts off saying ‘I am so sorry for the loss of your husband and I understand that there is a lot going on for you right now, including the six-inch-thick stack of paperwork included with this letter which must be filled out in triplicate in the next forty-eight hours or I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog(s) too.’

^ Yes. I’m metered.  Life in town.  I remind myself that Peter has a point about being walking distance of the shops and that I need to shut up and deal.  But I am not Niagara Falls.  Unless the hellterror has learnt to turn the taps on when I’m not at home.  I wouldn’t put it past her.

^^ There seems to be a slightly fiery theme to this post. Hmmm.

††† I said therapeutic and I meant THERAPEUTIC. Yes.^

^ And it was the BEGINNING of the evening when I set fire to my hair. I was still ABSOLUTELY SOBER.  Which I admit is not comforting, but not much is at the moment.  Comforting, I mean.

‡ I went into Idle Browse Mode the way you do in a shop when you’re there mostly for the person you’re with, and I saw something—I don’t even remember what it was any more—and thought, oh, that’ll amuse Peter!, and I had my hand out to pick it up when I remembered. . . .

‡‡ Hee hee hee hee. Well, she liked Niall’s brownies.

‡‡‡ Oldest is relative. She’s younger than I am.  But the friendship is old.

§ I took her to the monks last Saturday. Even by the monks’ standards last Saturday was AMAZINGLY COLD. AMAZINGLY. She got in Wolfgang^ afterward looking like someone who had been found under an ice floe in Antarctica having lost all hope of being found before the ice worms got her. She’s now very impressed with my commitment to my faith.^^  And she’s known for decades that I’m in the top category of dangerously nutso so no surprises there.

^ Who has a new bumper. I was carless for a week, RIGHT BEFORE RUBY ARRIVED+, after he SPECTACULARLY failed his road test—more oops—like I didn’t know he was going to, since Her Majesty’s Division of Road Rage has no sense of humour or practical reality and was going to object to the bumper tied on with wire.  And they did object, or at least the bloke with the clipboard did.  IT WORKS FINE, TIED ON WITH WIRE.  I think I told you some creepazoid slammed into me in the hospital car park early last autumn and my only thin wispy comfort (although comfort is not the word here either) was the thought that they were probably as crazy and frantic and clueless as I was myself at that point.

But the bumper, unfortunately, was only the beginning. And they wouldn’t let me have him back till they’d mended him.  And it wasn’t till they finally DID let me have him back and the mechanic was going through the list with me that I realised it was all little stupid crap. Expensive little stupid crap, but still little and stupid.  WOLFGANG LIVES.++

+ Hellhounds and I walked out to Warm Upford the evening before the morning I was picking Ruby up at 11:30, to fetch the car I needed to pick her up with. We didn’t know till the day before that if the final obscure replacement parts would arrive in time.  And I hate suspense.

++ He’s also officially 20 years old this year.  I know I tend to exaggerate& about things but calling him my 20-year-old car for the last couple of years hasn’t been exaggerating.  I’ve just been rounding up.&&

& ::hums a little tune::

&& Warning: I’ve started saying that I was with Peter for a quarter century.  That’s less of a round-up than you think:  we missed our 24th wedding anniversary by a few days under a fortnight.  But if you count from the end of July—the famous weekend in Maine—and which we tended to count from, he died five months after our 24th.#

# I said to Alfrick at some point~ when I was at the abbey weeping wildly~~ that while I had told Peter I wanted our 25th wedding anniversary together~~~ if I wasn’t going to have that, 23 years (and eleven and a half months) was somehow more interesting than 24 years.  Alfrick said immediately, of course.  Twenty-three is a prime number.  —Which is what Peter would have said.  And agreed with.

~ I don’t think I’ve told you this before.   But when I say that my memory, always pretty dire, is into the seriously frightening category@, believe me.

@ I broke yet another plate a day or two ago.  Maybe I’m manifesting some three-dimensional metaphor about having a broken cash flow?  Or maybe I’m just trying to cut down on the amount of STUFF I need to deal with?%  I feel there are better ways to perform this latter function.

% And the little/Daughter of Third/Gwendolyn house’s name is the Lodge. Niall, who if he weren’t a polite reserved British bloke would fall down laughing every time I refer to the difficulties and disadvantages of owning THREE houses, especially about having no money and getting really bad deals when you try to trade bricks or light fixtures for dog food=, said a week or two ago, so what does that make it?  The gate house, the lodge?  YES.  THE LODGE.  IT IS THE LODGE HOUSE.  It does, after all, front on the main road;  the cottage is tucked away up the cul de sac behind.

= ESPECIALLY the light fixtures at Third House that I never got round to replacing. Remember the plastic baronial hall candelabra? Brrrrrrrrrr.

~~ The real purpose of a spiritual adviser is to provide the box of tissues since the advisee will have already used all of hers up. There have been meetings with Alfrick recently when I got through most of a loo roll.  The abbey tissue boxes are ridiculously small.  Yo, Central Ecclesiastical Supply Co Ltd, LARGER TISSUE BOXES.

~~~ It’s not like I’m not going to remember, next 3 January, even if I meanwhile have been kidnapped by some beefcake pasha out of an early Mozart opera.  I’ll remember, and Peter won’t be there.

^^ So am I. I am generally speaking the modern first world’s coldest human.+  I am cold all the time except briefly during heat waves when I’m too hot.  Ruby is not in my league.  But she does live in New York City++, Town of Large Overheated Buildings, and it amused me a lot the way she clung to the Aga.

+ I’m known colloquially at the monks’ as The Blanket Lady.

++ One of the reasons I am not planning to move back to the States#, aside from the fact that Hampshire is home and that only moving out of Third House is already making me feel like I’m trying to obliterate Peter, is because the highest population density of my old friends is in New York City and I don’t want to live in a big city again.

# I am carefully not saying ‘I will never move back to the States, I can’t IMAGINE moving back to the States again’ because that kind of thing attracts undesirable attention.  Turning Christian maybe should wipe out your commitment to negotiating with fate and subcontractor gremlins, but it probably won’t.  My own feeling about this is that God is essentially unknowable so why take chances about where the lines are?  There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio etc.

comments

Please join the discussion at Robin McKinley's Web Forum.