IT’S BEEN AN EXTREMELY ARRRGH MAKING DAY. Starting, as so often, last night. The Samaritans training is brilliant* but EXHAUSTING and, furthermore, I come home so wound up I can’t sleep.** So I got to bed very late,*** got up very late, and was still staggering around wondering why the teapot was in the washing machine and where the on switch for the kettle was, when Pooka started barking. Nooooooo I’m not articulate yet, I tried to say, and failed on ‘articulate’. URK, I said. GLORP. Raphael, who is used to me, said, I have the new frabzle orbling for your printer and I’m in the area, I could drop it round if it’s convenient. Bromgle? I said. Glid? Okay.
. . . While you’re here, I said, letting him in twenty minutes and a major upload of caffeine later, would you mind looking at—?
AN HOUR AND A HALF AFTER THAT†, I am now really far behind, and I was planning on a lightning raid to the garden centre to buy snapdragons before they run out of PINK, and Peter had been swept off to visit distant family for the day by Georgiana who has the stamina of a marathon runner for driving†† so I have to wash my own lettuce for lunch, and the first thing that happens is that I open the refrigerator door at the mews and Peter’s box of eggs, he having been in a hurry that morning and perhaps not putting it back quite scrupulously enough, LEAPS OFF THE SHELF IN THE DOOR AND SPLATTERS ALL OVER THE FLOOR AT MY FEET.†††
Also the hellhounds aren’t eating again.
I didn’t make it to the garden centre.
And I remembered at the last minute that I’d promised to ring bells at Crabbiton again tonight. I’ve slightly inadvertently made myself a regular. I’m pretty demoralised about life in general‡, Forza is intimidating, I’m not up for intimidating, the Sams’ usual training evening is also tower practise night and I’m not going to risk ringing Sunday service when I’m not coming to practise. But I don’t want to lose all that grimly acquired mediocre semi-skill either. . . . I think I’ve told you that Wild Robert has started teaching at Crabbiton again. So I’ve been going along.
So tonight on the one hand it was AAAAAAAAUGH because I was looking forward to a nice quiet evening at home with my husband and on the other hand it was, oh! Wild Robert! A man who can create a stimulating practise out of nothing, as he did last week when there were only four of us and one of us couldn’t ring much, is worth some loyalty, or some getting out of your chair when you don’t want to. As I should remember from my still-nostalgically-recalled regular practise nights at Ditherington, till the tower captain and the only local who ever came, pulled the plug. Also, about tonight, I’d promised.
Wild Robert, who is an evil, eyebrow-wiggling ratbag as well as an inspired teacher, made me call a touch of Grandsire, not the relatively easy one where all you have to do is remember the little bit of the overall pattern that you’re comfortingly limited to, but a proper touch where calls dislocate you distressingly too—and I haven’t even called one of the simple ones in years. My first attempt tonight was a total disaster. T. O. T. A. L. Made worse by the fact that only Wild Robert, the tower captain and I can actually ring Grandsire touches, so some of the other people were questing off in interesting directions and had to be hauled back to order by Wild Robert who was also having to unstick me from the brambles and briars about every half lead.
Over the course of the evening I improved. Somewhat. But it was such fun. I used to love bell ringing. . . .
* * *
* And, something I thought I would never say, in part because I’m not in the habit of putting myself in the way of such experiences, I have learnt to love role playing. I HATE ROLE PLAYING.^ I’m so distracted by how unutterably stupid and phony and useless it is that I absolutely don’t learn anything and I feel unutterably stupid and phony and useless and CRANKY with it, that kind of cranky that makes you feel you don’t fit in your own skin any more, which furthermore has probably broken out into spots of angst and frustration. Arrrrgh.
In somebody or other’s defense, possibly mine, Samaritans role playing is a lot closer to reality than most of the situations where this mutant device is employed. You’re pretending to be a Samaritan phone volunteer and one of the real Samaritans^^ pretends to be a caller. All the trainers have been Samaritan listening volunteers for yonks . . . and I’m also rather intrigued by the apparent strong streak of dramatic flair thus revealed in the Samaritans community. Granted that when you’re in the hot seat you’re a trifle preoccupied with GLEEP WHAT DO I SAY NOW but we split up in teams so we get to listen as well as (fail to) perform and I’m telling you the trainers are convincing. They’re working from a script, but since they have to adapt to what the sweating trainees say, they have to be good at thinking on their feet.^^^
But adapting to what someone on the other end of a phone line is saying is, of course, what Samaritans are good at.# In our introductory evening the presenter said that the listening skills you learn by being a Samaritan do bleed into the rest of your life and if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself being a very popular person for unloading on. Ha. I plan to leave my nice, warm, empathetic## self in the cupboard under the stairs at the Samaritans and pick up my cranky cudgel on my way out the door.
^ I don’t remember what I said about the role playing in the Street Pastors training, but it won’t have been friendly.
^^ I should perhaps say real Samaritan organization volunteers to avoid confusion.
^^^ Although we’re sitting down. Ahem.
# Supposed to be good at. I’m not amazingly fabulous but I think I’ll make the grade.
## One of the Samaritans’ big deals is empathy. Sympathy suggests emotional involvement, which is devoutly to be avoided; empathy is getting alongside someone, seeing their situation from their point of view—which is what we’re trying to do, so we can offer emotional support.
** The worst thing is that WE’RE HALFWAY THROUGH THE FIRST MODULE. By the end of this month we’ll have our mentors—each new listening^ volunteer has a mentor for the first few duty shifts—and by the end of June we’ll be, you know, live. EEEEEEEEEEEEP. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?
^ Which is what it’s called, although it includes email and texting and the occasional streetmail letter.
*** I like the long evenings, this time of year, but I could really do without the early dawns.
† So there’s this app that won’t load. He ended up downloading the latest update of the frelling OS to persuade it that Astarte is a happy home for apps, which instantly made every other app say ME ME I HAVE AN UPDATE TOO I WANT MY UPDATE. A lot of them don’t bother to ask politely first either, they just instantly go into catch-up mode. I hate opening an app that I can more or less use and discovering they’ve made it new and shiny and thrilling and utterly unfamiliar. Life is short. I don’t want to waste a lot of it learning New and Shiny. The now-successfully-downloaded app had better be WORTH IT.
†† What with to and from her home as well as the trip itself she must have been behind the wheel seven hours. I couldn’t drive that far before I had ME.
††† I should have let the hellterror deal with it. She wanted to. I thought the eggshells might disagree with her.
‡ We have the head of the local branch of a five-star national home help company, as recommended by Peter’s doctor, coming for a chat and an assessment tomorrow. Siiiiiiiiiigh.
I bought nine roses last week.* AND I PLANTED THE LAST TWO OF THEM TODAY. It’s only been a WEEK.** And I’ve already got ALL OF THEM them in the ground.*** Are you impressed? Trust me, you should be impressed.
So I thought I’d give myself a Slightly Short Blog Day to celebrate.† And maybe I’ll do a little work. Or go to bed early.†† Or something.
* * *
* Hey. I need more roses.
** I can’t remember if I told you this story or not^. I’d ordered from a rose nursery that isn’t impossibly far from here and said I would pick them up. When they rang me that my roses were ready I suggested to Peter that he come too and we’d go on afterward to the big public garden nearby and have a wander. So that’s what we did. Except that by the time we got to the big public garden . . . we were too tired.^^ So we didn’t walk around it. Ho hum. Life in the Slow Lane. But I did get my roses.
^ And the Footnote Labyrinth makes trying to look back and check somewhat challenging.
^^ In my case all that frelling driving was aggravated by a long conversation I had with one of the rose-nursery proprietors about, how surprising, roses. She was full of embarrassing information I should have known.+ I have, for example, never had any luck with the symbiotic fungus stuff that you put in the hole when you plant your rose, and it colonises the roots which then develop like crazy in all directions and your rose is very, very happy. Except it didn’t and it wasn’t. I thought it was another fashionable scam. Nobody told me that root fungi don’t like blood-fish-and-bone which is the traditional rose and general perennial shrub food. You ALWAYS put BFB in the hole you’re planting a rose in. Not when you’re using mycorrhizal fungi. Oh. –So I bought some more of the frelling stuff and have used it. Except I’ve only used about half the packet and it only keeps for about a year and it’s stupidly expensive, you wouldn’t want to waste it nooooooooooo. . . . .
+ Although we did a little mutual howling about people who don’t get it that roses are, you know, living things. I told her a story I know I’ve told you, from when we were still at the old house and opened our garden on the National Gardens Scheme. I had someone at least once every open day saying, your roses are amazing, how do you get your roses to be so amazing? My roses are barely struggling along. And I would say, well, what do you feed them? And they would look at me blankly and say, Feed them? FOR PITY’S SAKE, GUYS. HOW DO YOU THINK ROSES PRODUCE ALL THOSE FLOWERS? MAGIC? How can anyone look at a modern, repeat-flowering rose, frelling bowed down by the weight of its flowers, not least because it’s been overbred for flower production at the expense of everything else like leaves and stems and good health, and not realise it’s going to need a little more help than scratching a hole in the ground and plonking it in?? That’s like buying a racehorse and feeding it straw. GOOD GRIEF.
*** Well. Mostly not in the ground. Not in the All the Plumbing in Hampshire cottage garden. Most of them are in pots. I suspect I have rather good drainage, between the builder’s rubble and all the plumbing in Hampshire, but most roses that aren’t major thugs, in this garden, do better in pots, possibly just because they don’t have to fight off the thugs. But I lost a few this wet winter that I don’t think I should have lost so . . . more pots. A few of the new intake are in pots smaller than they’ll stay in forever . . . but they’ll do for a year or two. Or three. Just keep feeding them.
† Also because I took Peter to the ex-library again today and we battered our way through all the other media and went and hung out in the small dark corner where the books now live. I found a little trove of knitting books . . . and then read one of Peter’s thrillers over tea. During which I absent-mindedly ate a Very Nasty gluten-free pistachio cookie. I think I object to a book so absorbing that you can eat nasty food without noticing till it’s too late. That’s the problem with thrillers: they make you forsake all rationality and keep turning pages.
And then I went bell ringing at Crabbiton for the second week in a row. I haven’t been ringing, I’m too tired, and the idea of facing eighty-six bells and a ringing chamber the size of a ballroom at Forza is too much for me. Crabbiton has six bells, and a pretty laid-back and low-level band, and I found out by accident that Wild Robert has started teaching there pretty regularly again. So I went along last week and made bob minor possible—they generally only have four inside ringers, and bob minor requires five—and so this week they were really glad to see me. It’s a hoot being one of the big kids. Although Felicity had to go and wreck my feeble glow of self-satisfaction by inquiring if I wouldn’t like to make up the number at Madhatterington on Mothering Sunday. Nooooooooooooo.
So . . . after all this febrile self indulgence . . . work would be good.
†† No! No! Not that!
At least I had previously confirmed with our tower captain that this was going to be the only open door on the way out too so I didn’t instantly rush away to check all the other doors—it’s a big close and there might always be another frelling door down another twisty frelling medieval alley. . . . I may have done a little un-Street-Pastor like snarling. I turned back toward the tower thinking that there were a number of other people who were going to be wanting to get out of the close one way or another and maybe the bishop could bless a door open or maybe we could have The Miracle of the Falling Down Wall* or something.
As I circled back toward the door that was supposed to be open** I saw one of our more volatile senior ringers approaching the shut door. Under other circumstances what was about to happen might have been amusing, but I like the idea of ringing and SPing on New Year’s Eve, and the SP admin are not going to let me do it if I disappear into the bell tower and am never seen again.
And at this point Mr Cock of the Walk materialised, striding around the corner in rooster-coloured day-glo waterproofs. He had the look of a man with a key to a large Saxon-echt door and I, who sometimes knows when to keep a grip, addressed him humbly. Yes, he says, taking up the entire pavement with his swinging I Am the Man gait***, I’m going to open the door.
And now our volatile senior ringer catches sight of him.
. . . Okay, it was pretty funny. Fortunately Mr Man did still open the gate.
And my team were happy to see me again and said they’d listened to the bells and thought of me ringing.†
And, as New Year’s Eves go, it was pretty mellow. Except for the not getting home till nearly 5 a.m. part.
But I hope I’ll do it again. If they let me.††
* * *
PETER UPDATE: We had our appointment with Dr Goodpotions yesterday and HE TOOK PETER OFF THREE DRUGS.††† YAAAAAAAAY. I don’t generally go with Peter to his GP—why would I—only when there’s something extreme going on, you know? When I’m probably feeling a trifle extreme myself. Whereupon I have to remember to be calm and understated‡ because Dr Goodpotions is VERY BRITISH. VERY VERY BRITISH. VERY. I’m an American. I don’t know how to be that British. I don’t have the right glands. I’m missing a crucial blood component. It’s taking me YEARS to learn how not to frighten/repel Dr Goodpotions into not talking to me.
It worked pretty well yesterday though, the attempt at calm and understated. What I wanted to hear was that Dr G had any idea what all these drugs were beyond what it said on the packet—um, I tried not to say it quite like this—and he said that they were all common and familiar and had been around in heavy use for years and their little idiosyncrasies were pretty well documented and not to worry, and furthermore that the particular nasty interaction that had freaked me out was old news and had been discredited. Oh. I’d still rather have the internet available to find out scary things on that may be untrue, but I admit I wasn’t instantly ready to view Medscape through my DISTRUST filter, shiny with use elsewhere on the webz as it is.
And then today Peter and I went to Mauncester for the first time since he fell ill. It was going to be an adventure, and would include how well his stamina is holding up. But I had been late picking him up at the mews and was busy blithering and rescheduling the rest of the day, and we divided up the errands as if everything was normal and I shot off in my designated direction and got about halfway to my first stop and suddenly thought I’ve just cut loose an eighty-six-year-old man who had a stroke less than three weeks ago alone in a large noisy confusing city MCKINLEY HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Well. Yes. Frequently.
He was fine. I nearly had a nervous breakdown before I found him again.
And on the way home Peter said, you know, it’s the 3rd. Yes, I said, we’ve been thinking about going out to dinner.‡‡ No, he said, I mean it’s the real 3rd, the 3rd of January, the actual wedding-anniversary 3rd.
I’d forgotten.‡‡‡ How embarrassing is that.
So we had to go out to dinner.
Yes. There was champagne.§
* * *
* Theodora and I would have been happy to let them have our falling-down wall experience from last winter, if we’d only known.^ We could have told the Falling Down Wall fairy that its services were going to be vital the coming New Year’s Eve at an abbey close not far away and it should conserve its resources.
^ Despite the loss of photo-blog posts. I would be willing to cede these.
** It was also raining. Just by the way. Heavily.^ I was bad and wicked and put my coat back on.^^
^ This footnote got left behind last night. If you look closely you will observe that the ‡ footnote is missing. Well, this is it.
^^ I also dropped my gloves in another puddle. The wages of sin. Sigh.
*** You can sure see where the term ‘wide boy’ could have come from.
† Also, nobody laughed. God is kind.
††I’ll remember the large black plastic trash bag to cover up my logos next year. Or maybe I could knit a very large Navy blue shawl.
††† He’s still on quite a few. But three fewer.
‡‡ New readers or those with better things to remember: Our two important dates are the 26th of July^ and the 3rd of January. The rest of the year, if we want a random celebration, we tend to choose either a 26th or a 3rd.
^ We’d met before. But this was The Meeting.
‡‡‡ I told you I lose my mind frequently.
§ And we’re both shattered.
Since SP teams are a minimum of three, we were going to have to meet up before I peeled* off to my second commitment.** We gathered at the massive great front of Forza and discovered . . . that the door into the close was locked. The door to the bell tower is off the close. Oh. Hmm.
I tried it two or three times, the way you do, feeling a fool. It went on being locked. Emphatically. I don’t know that Forza’s big outside doors are original—since the first abbey was knocked down by William the Conqueror so his bishops could put up something new and flashy, I doubt it. But they’re built to look like they were salvaged when the rest of the old abbey went under the wrecking ball equivalent in the late eleventh century and rehung in the new build for that quaint traditional look. You kind of expect ‘Aethelstan was here’ to be carved into the lintel.
I noticed a group of bellringers striding purposefully toward us. Er, I said, the door’s locked. We know, said Conall. So are all the other doors.
I think most of the other SPs were trying not to fall into fits of helpless giggles. Eventually there was a rumour that the farthest-away and most inconvenient close door was still open, so five SPs went one way and I hared off after the other bellringers, struggling out of my coat and hat as I went. Sic. We’re not supposed to wear our SP gear, flamboyantly logo’d as it is, anywhere or any time under any conditions but when we’re on the beat with our team being Street Pastors. I knew this, and when the possibility had first come up of ringing and pastoring I’d remembered that I was going to have to have something to drape over my coat, but I’ve been so focussed both on Peter and on the fact that I had not to focus on Peter while I was SPing***, that this little detail had kind of dropped out. Fortunately it was not raining. I turned my coat inside out and . . . it’s a big heavy bulky furry thing, bless it, and it didn’t want to turn inside out and there was no question of my putting it back on that way, so I stumbled along carrying a small Navy-blue polar bear cub in my arms.
The rumour was true and we got in through the Strait of Gibraltar gate, picking up hangers-on as we went, since on New Year’s Eve traditionally a lot of people with more sense the rest of the year† struggle up all those stairs to watch us ring in the new year.
We attempted, with mixed results, to scamper up all those stairs. All. Those. Stairs. I haven’t been up them in a while and they’ve got longer again. And then our first hasty pull-off was somewhat marred by the fact that my bell was frelling locked and wouldn’t.†† Meanwhile more and more people were coming up to watch us so we stood around whistling little tunes with our hands in our pockets pretending that this is all part of the New Year’s Eve tradition while someone belted up that last flight of stairs to the belfry and unlocked my bell.
We did finally ring. And I thought about how sad I’d feel if I were out on the street listening instead of in the bell tower trying to tell myself that I haven’t forgotten everything, and mere rounds on eighty-six or four hundred and twelve bells is no big deal even if you do have to hold up and wait about ten minutes before it’s your turn again while everyone else rings—especially those last few bells which range in size and weight from Thomas the Tank Engine through nuclear submarine to aircraft carrier. Bong. The mayor was there. The bishop was there. The Folies Bergere were there. No no I made that up. Although they might have been. It was a frelling crush. And I’ve told you before the ringing chamber is the size of a ballroom. Two ballrooms.
It was a real crush going back down those stairs again. Anorexic Chihuahuas have been known to have claustrophobia on that final staircase. I’d tried to blitz for the head of the queue and I almost made it. But immediately ahead of me were a family consisting of a tall gentleman in a very long coat whose tails trailed up the stairs behind him a remarkably long way, and ahead of him two frelling women who . . . really I have no idea what they were doing, barring whining. Look, you can SEE what the stairs are like, if you are helpless screaming cows, why didn’t you change your minds and go to a nice ground-level party somewhere? Oh, right, you don’t have minds. I am not joking that the rest of us were standing at the top for a good two or three minutes while Barbie and Midge totally failed to negotiate that admittedly challenging last flight of stairs. And I was failing to channel the Holy Spirit about this situation. FAILING. FAAAAAAAILING.†††
Spilled out onto the street at last. Pelted for the one open door out of the close to attempt to rejoin my team before it was time to go home and . . .
The one open door was shut and locked. Noooooooooooo.‡
TO BE CONTINUED.‡‡
* * *
* Pealed. Ha ha ha.
** Maxine^ kept saying, It is so cool that you are doing both.^^
^ Three of the four of us SPs from St Margaret’s were on the job last night.+ Are we the superbest or what.
+ And Eleanor was at home feeling guilty.
^^ I think I told you there was some administrative stress about this initially, but our overall team leader was fine with it, so I got to do my double act.
*** Also that I had to have suitable-for-sharing food to bring for the break. I have my priorities.
† So far as I know theoretically anyone can come watch us any time we’re ringing. But any time but New Year’s Eve you have to ask a ringer first. And possibly hire a Sherpa.
†† When you’ve got eighty-seven bells you don’t want to haul them up and down^ every time you want to ring, especially when the biggest half-dozen of them weigh in total almost as much as the Isle of Wight. Forza has a fancy locking system that bolts the bells in place, mouth up, ready for ringing. But you do have to unbolt them.
^ Ringing up and down: bells are normally left mouth down because it’s safer. Therefore to do method ringing you have to drag each bell by pulling on the rope so it swings higher and higher till it’s ready to stand upright mouth up on its beam. At which point you’re ready for full-circle ringing.
††† I am still failing. In the first place, why didn’t they wait and let the rest of us get out first? In the second place, there is a perfectly good tiny cul de sac at the bottom of that first stair: having held us all up for probably five minutes total while they minced and tittuped and whatever the galflibbet, why didn’t they draw aside at that point—I’ll let them off the profuse apologizing—and let the rest of us by THEN? But noooooooo. They waddled^ on down. And it’s not like Mr Coat-tails didn’t know there was a press of numbers behind him: he looked over his shoulder several times. Maybe he mistook me for a Street Pastor and thought that I was channelling the Holy Spirit at him. These are not Holy Spirit vibes, honey.
^ This is not a weightist remark. I know plenty of people whose doctors wish they were thinner who are neat and nippy on their feet. Both these bimbos were, in fact, slim and slight.
‡‡ I didn’t mean for it to run to three. Well, I didn’t mean for it to run more than one post, last night. This is sort of the KES/PEGASUS New Year’s Eve post.
Ring in the New Year! Ring it in! Bells are ringing! Ding, Dong, Ding, Dong!
Thought of you . . . as we sang this round last night. . . . We were sitting around a living room, adults and children, some old friends, others newcomers, with three of the kids, now nine and ten, playing their fiddles, two grownups with guitars.
With several strong musicians to keep us on the right track, we sang lots of folk songs and carols, including some from a number of local performers we know, and some written for us to try out by members of the group. . . .
Oh and plenty of brownies . . . studded with dark chocolate chunks and dried cranberries. . . .
This sounds like a totally perfect way to spend your New Year’s Eve. Ringing tower bells and Street Pastoring turns out to be a pretty good way to spend your New Year’s Eve too. I missed the bishop’s party, that the bellringers were invited to, and which had champagne, but us SPs had home-made mini-stollen and sponge cake with cherry jam filling at break* and on the whole I’ll take the stollen and the cake. It’s a lot easier to open a bottle of champagne** than to make your own stollen.***
Which is not to say that nothing went wrong. Heaven forfend, you should forgive the phrase.
We were lucky with the weather though. The monsoon is back and the forecast for last night was dire. It was just starting to rain as we—er—trickled in, and while we were loading up the knapsacks and discovering that we didn’t have any fresh batteries for the torches IT CAME ON TO SHEET. The room we meet in just before we go out† is on the first, which is in this case top, floor, and the sound of the rain was so loud we could barely hear ourselves talking. Matilda and I exchanged glances: we’re both on Walker’s team and Walker’s team is notorious for being rained on.
And then . . . it didn’t exactly clear but it backed off to a damp sullen grizzle with occasional outbursts of temper.†† There were six of us SPs, so we could go out in two teams; the overall team leader, Henry, went with Maxine and Jonas; I was with Matilda and her husband Dominic whom I hadn’t met before. He is fabulous.††† The twice I’ve been out with Matilda I’ve seen her do some lovely things and without apparently thinking about it, while I’m still standing there going, Wha’?‡ But the thing that makes Dominic stand out is the he seems able to get alongside the seriously out of it—the very much worse for wear or the fallen-through-the-social-services-cracks‡‡ ones. We had examples of both last night and Dominic kept up his side of each conversation in a calm, ordinary voice as if he was having a conversation. I had occasion to talk to one of these people myself and it seemed to me I might as well have been reciting the times tables or Chesterton’s Lepanto.‡‡‡
But it was time for our comedy of errors. . . .
TO BE CONTINUED.§
* * *
* Both made by one of our Prayer Pastors. Last night’s was a scratch team, those of us mad enough to be willing to patrol on New Year’s Eve, and we’re all now trying to get reassigned to her team.
** And Forza is always counting its pennies. The champagne mere bellringers are offered is not top flight.^
^ I’m a lot crankier about cheap champagne than I used to be: there are some really just plain good Proseccos and similar out there so there’s no excuse for bad cheap fizz any more.
*** Although if you make your own you can leave out the marzipan. Ahem.
† This is the Donning of the Armour of God bit: we read a few Bible verses and do some praying. And it’s interesting just how effective this is. Now granted there’s been a fairly steep selection process for any of us to have got that far: you have to want to do it and then you have to survive the interview process and the training. So if you’re there weaponing up as a SP you have both faith and a call to be doing this work. But even so. You can feel the atmosphere in the room change. Although I may have been especially aware of it last night because I was coming out of a fortnight pretty single-mindedly devoted to Peter.^
^ Or to worrying about Peter.
†† It was also shockingly warm. This was excellent for several reasons, including that I had not had to bring the tropical jungle indoors again which since of course I’d spent too much time waiting fruitlessly^ for hellhounds to eat I probably couldn’t have done anyway arrrrrrrgh and when I dropped my glove into a puddle, having removed it briefly for some dumb reason^^, I didn’t go into exothermic shock.
There has been local flooding again—and some spectacular tree-uprooting in the wind—but at least it isn’t snow.
^ Also meatlessly and kibblelessly
^^ Probably concerning hot chocolate, lollipops, or pairs of flipflops, see below.
††† She likes him too.
‡ If I can’t give the problem hot chocolate or a lollipop or a pair of flipflops I have no clue. I’m told you do learn.
‡‡ There are a lot of reasons people become homeless, and none of them is about being lazy, stupid or a slob, okay? But some of these people really seriously need social services help which for one reason or another they’re not getting.
‡‡ The gentleman I was attempting to engage might well have liked Lepanto. His own rendition of—something—was dramatic enough that one of the door staff of the late-night whatever we were lurking outside came over to check that Matilda and I were all right, Dominic having his attention on one of our waif’s friends. We were fine. Just at a loss.
§ Hey. Cliffhangers ‘r’ us. Didn’t you know that?