~“Rainspots keep hopping on my head,
like twenteen toads high on acid drops.
…And now it's shrunken, and is a smaller size instead,
like a hair bobble.
I’m a walking dolly peg!”~
~~~~~~
5 May:
I do believe I am shrinking. Ever since Mother Nature insisted that whilst here on her territory, I have to grow up~frowns at such a ridiculous thought~I find that, in actual fact, I am now beginning to grow down. Having been 5 '3'' at my most growerist, I have recently stood up to the marker to hear that I am now just 4’ 11” - according to Mr WH anyway, believe him at your peril, he has a nose like Pinocchio's that one. Should have stood on my tippy toes, he would have been none the wiser. Instead, as a consequence of my physical erosion, he insisted that he wheel me to the shoemaker’s shop to prevent any further occurrence. Once there, we met with an elfin looking craftsman, well established at the renowned R. Sole & Son, where we placed an order for a pair of raised clogs. These should help to reinstate me to my former height, albeit I shall miss my trusted curl-toe winkle pickers terribly. After all these years my husband finally informs me that I tend to drag my feet along, as if they are somewhat reluctant to follow. Anyway, at the end of the day, I simply cannot risk any more shrinkage and dread to think what could happen if I do. Why, Mr WH could wake up one morning and be unable to find me because I have become a borrower. Furthermore, I have been advised to take quick dips in the bath over showers and to stay out of the rain, as the excess water could be a contributing factor to the inches which have deserted me. Looks like I'm staying inside for the foreseeable future then~tuts~
*Brambling through the village after an inspirational visit to La Jardinerie de Grand-Mère, La Jardinerie Est La Plus Extraordinaire!©1812, I realised that I was being tailed by a button mushroom. Suspicious or what? Yes, I know exactly what you're thinking. Started to get freaked out after a while so stopped to pick it up. After a period of careful scrutinisation, I carried it home and popped it onto the scullery window sill. Going to keep my good eye on it; can't be too careful, it could be bugged. Perhaps it has something to do with the Women's Institute (notably Gilda) or the Home Guard (Stanley Gribble). Will mention it to the vicar and to no other, except my darling husband. Looks one straight in the eyes. Please note: The following sentence has been whispered… Trust no-one! That's the best advice I can give to you or to anyone else for that matter!~Shss~
¿ bramble verb 🔈brim-bill 🔈brim-blin
to amble in the countryside whilst staring at the hedgerows & attempting to name all that one sees, usually involves tripping up at some point and requiring a band aid, plus a teaspoon or two of genuine consolation.
Example, “Whatever has one done to one’s hooter, Esther?”
“Been brimblin, Jane.”
“Oh! The perils of brimblin. I have to say, it looks awfully sore, poor thing…”
“Believe me, it is, Jane.”
“TCP ?”
“Spot on, my friend. However did you know?”
“Just lucky, I guess. See anything out of the ordinary?”
“Why yes, a rare Truffleberry. Had to wrestle a raptor to reach it, hence the mashed up face, but it was jolly well worth it, absolutely delightful.”
“I bet! Anyway, well done old thing, sounds like a cause for celebration. Shall we have some tea?”
“Don't mind if I do, Jane, don't mind if I do.”
“Shortbread finger?”
“Oh, go on then…”
~
Dear Muttlet has said ‘toodle-oo' to one of his two remaining teeth and we are inclined to believe that it stemmed from a bout of pilfering, whereupon, he’d chomped his way through a selection of Norah Nouget’s confectionery. Towards the end of our annual springtime fete, the children are presented with a goody bag to take home. We'd spotted Muttlet lurking around the main tent where said bags had been stored, prior to being handed out at the awards ceremony (shaky evidence is available on Mr Parsons’ amateur video recording,* please try to ignore his heavy breathing). Obviously, Muttlet had snuffled through them; the temptation was just too much, bless him, and bless the child who may have been subjected to the frightful sight of a canine’s fang deeply embedded into their nougat.
Moving on, Mr WH won a second place certificate for his attempt at growing a monobrow within a twelve month period. Sadly, he was pipped at the post by none other than the brazen Titty Cuddleworthy, whom I hasten to add, has been accused of (on the wind, I should say) regularly rubbing at her forehead with Bay Rum. Let her have first place I say, if that's how desperate she is. She's still barred from The Parlour and will remain so until I'm convinced that she's changed her ways. Not seeing it yet.
Caught a case of kennel cough from having to take Muttlet to the veterinary practice, though my husband said that that is most unlikely and more likely stems from getting a jolly good soaking when passing by ‘Splat the Rat’. Apparently, the aforementioned TC has a terrible aim, or so she claims!
*Further shrinkage caused (0.5mm). Considering seeking damages.
12 May:
Mr WH and I, along with the hounds, visited a seaside resort for two days. The highlight of the trip had to be the time he escorted them onto the Ferris wheel for a special treat. I not only took some photographs to place in our memory book, but slipped the operator a couple of shillings to keep it continuously turning. Meanwhile, I slid off and did myself a bit of snorkelling, wasn't going to miss a chance to wear my new vintage bathing suit! They were all none the wiser when I returned but did look a little green around the gills. That was a dream I had whilst I was there and isn't really true. Sorry.
Speaking of my husband, his acting career is beginning to take off. Currently he is considering a number of bit parts in programmes that are recorded for the television set. Though we ourselves don't actually own a television set (favouring the radio for we both enjoy listening to the World Service) we do, however, watch a television of sorts through a projector which focuses a film reel onto a wall. That way, we get to watch something of our choosing, draw the curtains and keep the lights down low. And, as silhouettes of both Muttlet and Chumley pass back and forth along the bottom of the screen to visit their popcorn bowls, it only serves to enhance the feeling of a true cinematic experience.
Back to Mr WH, who has been very busy working on a modelling shoot for none other than the prestigious Victoria's Regret, a vintage fashion house whose most recent advertising campaign has seen my husband's image promoted on billboards across the world. Why, we have heard that the b&w image of him holding a candle whilst wearing a faded, grubby nightshirt has virtually stopped traffic in Mumbai. The same thing was said to have happened in Delhi and Bengaluru. I think it must have been his ‘manly allure’, can't think what else it could have been, the clothing line is rather shabby in my opinion and the purchasing cost far more than any actual worth. More often than not though, he is offered work as an extra in historical documentaries, such as reenactments and programmes similar to ‘Time Team’. So far he has played Albert Einstein, both Charles I and II, Guy Fawkes, a couple of the musketeers, Worzel Gummidge, Catweazle, Gandalf, Ebenezer Scrooge and Fagin. He looks so dashing in some of those outfits; my heart swells with pride when I see some of the stills. I must place a selection of them upon the wall in The Parlour, a kind of celebrity wall of fame. We regularly get asked if autographed prints are available, which we can accommodate, though most are flown overseas by our trusted carrier pigeon, Pilot, whom we reward with a little sweetcorn and peanut brittle. Occasionally, some of my husband's most devoted fans request nude shots, oops! I meant more artistic shots. Whether or not we honour these are at his sole discretion…(*see website for further details regarding prices & postage, discount for bulk orders if using voucher code).
19 May:
Lost track of the day as all the clocks in the house had gone on strike-don’t ask me why. Had to fall back on an old favourite; blowing away the seeds from a dandelion globe, one of the most trusted methods for time-telling since time began. Why, if you look at some of the older images in encyclopaedias, before clocks actually took off, folk were always seen with a dandelion or two, either on or very near to their person. Make of that what you will. Poor Mr WH though, he was absolutely shattered by the evening, as like the big bad wolf, he had been pretty much huffing and puffing all day, a consequence of having to adhere to exact timings for some of his more elaborate experiments, I might add.
26 May:
Sirius came round with a delivery of fresh pea shoots. Thanked him with a glass of homemade lemonade, which he guzzled down in one go before letting out a very loud belch, the force of which swayed the chandelier like a melting wedding cake in a hot marquee. I asked if he'd like a posy of pretties to help comfort his sweet wife, Alicia May. The poor soul suffers from bunions the size of duck eggs and I've been told that the throb from them is somewhat unrelenting and that she now struggles to walk without the aid of two sticks. Surprisingly, he declined the offer before adding that the scent of lilacs reminded him of ‘old ladies’ drawers’. They aren't meant for you dear, I thought to myself and one presumes that he meant the drawers that you store things in and not the drawers that elderly ladies might wear! Regaled this to Mr WH over supper, who said he was in total agreement with Sirius before appearing to blush, as if having experienced a recollection. Perhaps his bourguignon was a little too hot. Fetched a fresh jug of iced water for the table and thought it best to wait a while before serving the creme brulé and cheese board.
Mr WH inquired as to why I was sitting up in bed holding my right arm up in the air. I replied that I was tired of being me and thought that I might be the Statue of Liberty for a change. Without hesitation, he continued to fumble through his top drawer, mumbling something about me being ‘an odd little thing’ before enquiring if I knew where his favourite Paddington Bear socks were.
~Au revoir, mes petites boules de pâte. Que June fasse briller son soleil estival sur vos cils!~
Mrs WH
