7 Jan:
Got my boiler suit covered in alpaca manure and couldn't find any free range eggs in the nearby hamlet. It appears the hens are not laying as much due to the lack of sunlight plus there's a pharcking war on. Have to say, the lack of egg custard tarts is beginning to grate. The WI are at odds with each other ~again~ refusing to meet up in the Institute on Tuesday afternoons, which means that they're turning up here instead. They just sit in The Parlour, throwing each other evils over tea and scones. As per, Lettuce is ignoring Gilda and Mildred is at odds with Mrs Crisp, something to do with poaching from the allotments under the cover of darkness and passing vegetables off as their own. I don't know, as I have no evidence, but the sooner they sort out an on site gourd-keeper the better. Mr WH sat sucking his teeth whilst counting out his mint imperials and also mistakenly charged a solar battery up instead of ‘The Patch’ camera. One of the dogs needs to go on a diet. Someone has eaten all the fig rolls; there are only a few crumbs left in the tin. I have my suspicions…
14 Jan:
Ordered new curtains to be tailored for The Parlour, to look like those one would find in a splendid Victorian gambling den. I believe that that era best befits Mr WH whom, I might add, has been a trifle grumpy recently on account he has misplaced his cough drops. I said it's a jolly good job he has, for they have been resting in his pocket for the past forty-three years and must surely have lost any benefit they ever had to aid ‘a soreness of the throat’.
Bought some new port, smells like a dank wooden barrel, won't have it served in The Parlour. Mr WH has put it under his bunk for when he's thirsty in the night. Told him it makes his halitosis worse in the mornings and to try and exhale in a southerly direction as his breath is tarnishing the furniture.
21 Jan:
Looking at old photographs to put up in The Parlour. We seem to be favouring the one of Great Uncle Clement for a centrepiece, though why he deserves such an accolade is rather baffling; the silly old bugger might have lived a few more years had he not gone haggis hunting and fallen off a mountain.
Came across a delightful pair of vintage wedding shoes, lost in the dimness of an enchanting Emporium. Artistically presented within a tissue lined box, they were labelled ‘1920’s style’ and appeared a tad worn around the edges. It seems that the bride must have jiggled the day away before dragging her feet over a gravel strewn path, scuffing up her shoes as best as she could. Perhaps she was soaring towards a most splendid vintage sports car, idly waiting to whisk her off to a faraway location…Mmm, perhaps I will ponder upon writing a poem about the occasion...Moving on, we decided against purchasing said footwear, on account of the sweaty feet situation that undoubtedly occurred; rolled wedding stockings in summertime wedding shoes...I wonder if she paused to sip a little Pimms in the summerhouse? I fancy that her name was Maud or Millicent, her groom Percival and his best man, the cad and bounder known as Bertram Bottomly, an utter scoundrel and breaker of a million hearts…’What's that you say? With the mother of the bride? How very dare he! My God, he has some gall. Why, the absolute nerve of the chap..!'~shakes head in disgust, tuts, draws on cigar~ Of course, Willie the bellboy saw it all didn't he…
28 Jan:
Bumped into Mrs Wickham when walking the dogs. She's awfully pleasant and has promised me a cutting of rosemary. Never found Rosemary to have a harsh tongue to be honest, always found her to be quite agreeable. Got terribly annoyed with myself for allowing Mr WH to beat me at tiddlywinks, so I stormed off in a granny to sit in silence and add up my freckles. Though, unfortunately, whichever way I did it, 16 + 12 kept on coming out as 29, which was most frustrating. Usually, freckle counting tends to have a calming effect upon one's countenance, such as a good quality calamine lotion might have when applied liberally to a terribly itchy skin. I have to say, the complex conundrum was beginning to become a little self-explanatory, (which was such a relief) until you-know-who decided to play his Pinky and Perky album in the next room and throw everything into disoriented chaos. To put it bluntly, I had to start all over again, from the very beginning. Needless to say, we had words.
~Toodles, may we meet in a month's passing, remembering to step lightly over springtime bulbs~
Mrs WH
