2 June:
~Games & Goofery~
Received a telegram from an old school friend, Papahanaumoku, known as Papa for short. Turned out that she and her husband, Elric, were in need of our help as they were stuck in a rut. As friends, we help each other out in times of crisis and I found my imagination piqued. Pondered in the potager for a while before coming to the decision that I would arrange for a troupe of actors to call upon them and act out scenes from their favourite film. They were to receive no prior knowledge of this secret rescue mission. I was so excited! However, their favourite film turns out to be ‘Gremlins’. On second thoughts, this could be a bit of a disaster…we’ll have to see. Nevermind, at least it might just shake them up a little, lift them out of their melancholic misery if nothing else. If one could choose a character from a film to play, mine would be Mary Poppins, Mr WH would be my Bert for it would be a shame not to utilise his dancing skills, would it not? My husband's choice of character is The Highlander but I believe he’d make a far better Alvin, from Alvin and The Chipmunks.
Talking of he who remains forever gorgeous, I was lingering amongst the vegetables in a farm shop recently and noticed that a potato had an eye fixed firmly upon me. It was beginning to make me feel a little paranoid so I went to have it out with it. However, once an acquaintance had been established it was obvious that this potato was a distant relative of my husband, in fact, it had the same facial outline, from a right sided perspective that is. With that in mind I bought it home and wrapped it up for a Christmas gift, he’ll think it smashing for he takes a keen interest in his lineage and has researched his family tree which turned out to be a sycamore. I remember once that he guessed mine to be a coven tree or something similar, can't remember.
9 June:
Had a wonderful holiday in France where we befriended a bashful button seller called Marion, who very kindly invited us to dine with her one evening. Sitting in the garden at her quintessentially French country cottage, we indulged ourselves with crusty breads, numerous pungent cheeses and the tastiest olives I have ever eaten. Captivated by the combination of candlelight and laughter, relaxation proved effortless as we eased ourselves into what turned out to be a rather long evening. The local flautist, Sylvestre La Flûte eagerly entertained us whilst Fabrice, the button seller's beau, serenaded us with his fiddle. And, whilst my darling husband played the spoons for a little added percussion, I myself, whilst caught up in the spirit of it all, and somewhat giddy from moonshine and wine, showed off my yodelling skills to the best of my ability. However, this turned out to be not such a good idea as unfortunately, the following morning, I woke to find that I could barely speak and returned home with a throat infection. Mr WH suggested that I might consider giving up yodelling from now on for it had exacerbated his tinnitus, adding that he hadn't wanted to ruin my evening by telling me so at the time. Apparently, he has always carried the opinion that I ‘chanter comme une hyène hurlante’. Nothing wrong with my yodelling, many have proffered that I would be very much at home, kulning, up and over in Sweden…
Played Pooh sticks with some of the locals. They hadn't heard of it initially but eventually recognised it to be ‘jeu de baton’. Mr WH won hands down and got covered in French kisses which caused him to have one of his flushes.
16 June:
Home Again.
Looked out of the window to see time flying by. Went and lit The Parlour porchlight to indicate that we were open for visitations. Got startled by the figure of a fellow; someone was lurking in the twitter light, obviously keen for refreshment. I could both sense and hear them shuffling timorously in the dimming light whilst caught in the coolness of an early evening. Why, it was the young station master, Joseph Potter, standing with an air of unease whilst holding a single red rose, one could not fail to notice his slightly trembling hand. Turned out he was there to meet someone for the first time…how very exciting! Sat him in the front window seat, the spot where the forget-me-not cushions look their best. Fidgeting nervously, he must have enquired as to the time several times over. On each occasion I pointed to the grandfather clock and told him the time. Poor thing, he was still there at closing, five minutes to ten and, a few minutes later, as I ventured out to turn off the lamp, I thought what a sad silhouette he made as he walked away, head held down, so sorrowful. Pausing to release the rose from his hand, it fell into the water below, floating away until it was gone, heading downstream within the gutter, to the jaws of a thirsty drain. It was at that moment that I vowed my intention to find him a true love. Yes. I would speak to Violetta tomorrow and ask for her help as I trust in her discretion concerning matters of the heart. However, the following evening, as I once again stepped out to light the evening lamp, there, holding a scarlet rosebud, was a handsome young man whom I did not recognise. Mr WH was very handsome in his youth and still is. I remember the night that we met as if it were yesterday… I’d crowd-spotted him at a Petulant Clark concert, 16th June 1960 at Tivoli Glassalen, Copenhagen. ‘The Little Shoemaker’ is our song, summing both of us up most perfectly.
Oh! Do forgive my digression. The young man appeared more like a frightened rabbit than a presumably confident male model, in fact one might say that he had been caught in the glare of blinding headlights. Beckoning him in, I guided him towards the window seat whilst I went to make a telephone call, by-passing the operator, Mildred, for I felt it my duty to speak directly and discreetly to someone I thought might be keen to pop on his coat and head over for a little light supper.
Talking of love, Chumley has found himself a girlfriend. Her name is Bootie and she lives with her master, Mr Cecil Deakin Snr, in a quaint cottage on the canalside. We think he is smitten because he's off his food, which is a rarity. Mr WH said he thought a loin chop of sorts might help, however, in my opinion to tempt Chumley with food offerings would be the wrong way to go. Rest assured we’ll be keeping a watchful eye on him.
23 June:
~The Radio Programme~
Was busy preparing Sunday lunch whilst listening to the wireless. After the local news a new segment began entitled, ‘A Day in the Life of A Rural Villager’. Well, just who was the first local to be interviewed? Why, none other than Titty Cuddleworthy that's who! My word she can talk some rubbish…reckons she can communicate with pheasants but not partridges and that the former have requested more speed awareness signs around the village. Turned it off and continued to top & tail the French beans, it was far more interesting than listening to her gabble on. She only went on to promote her book, ‘A Life Well Spent is a Life Spent With Gourds’.
~
Brambled along the canal side only to come across a couple walking their invisible dog, a Great Dane called Quinn who was adorable. Told them that they were blessed to have her and received a couple of huge smiles which I treasured for the rest of the day. It doesn't cost much to be nice.
Visited a local town that we hadn't been to for a while. It has an array of little gift shops all set in an atmospheric alley. Albeit we chose not to hang around for too long as there were ‘Wanted’ posters of a one toothed dog pasted everywhere.
June 30:
~An Epitome of Embarrassment~
Telephoned the local hospital to change an appointment. Had been getting no answer from the X-Ray Dept so tried a different extension line. To my surprise a voice answered almost immediately, “Emma Wry, how can I help you?”
“Good morning Emma, I need to make an alternative appointment…”
Upon replacing the receiver my husband looked somewhat bemused. “What are you chuckling at?” I asked him, curiously.
“You were through to MRI my dear, not Emma Wry.”
~
Harvesting juneberries to make Bakewell tarts, I noticed that the balloonerists seem to be keen on practice for their annual event, sadly they were washed out last year. Mr WH sailed off in one once, I do believe that that's when he developed his liking for all things steampunk, came back a totally changed man, though for some reason he still won't talk about it.
Muttlet has been put on probation by the local constabulary. He also has to wear a tag and adhere to the most strictest of rules. We have been advised not to discuss the whys and wherefores thus I shall say no more.
~May your cheeks ache often through smiling too much and any despondencies become quickly diminished~
Mrs WH
