Cheesy News

Well worra week its been.
The trees are falling to bits – to quote Laurie Lee – orange and crimson leaves all over the path.
On Wednesday I had a blood transfusion, my bloody haemoglobin levels were so low that it was deemed necessary to hang two bags of vital fluid higher than my head then drip, drip, drip, ‘A’ positive into my depleted body.
Drip. drip. drip went the red droplets. Four hours later I was filled with someone else. I was informed that Hollywood starlets are forever changing their 8 pints, in my case I suspect it was a fireman from Chatham who wanted some tea and biscuits and a lie down.
I drove home right woozy. Sat on the settee and five hours later I woke up.
Watched ‘Portrait Artist of the Year’, stumbled up stairs and six hours later I woke up in my own bed.
Yesterday was interesting, trying not to think about the entity that had hijacked me.
I woke this morning for dry cleaning and did feel a little lighter. We’ve all heard of haemoglobin but who new that too little of it turns you into a zombie.
In the mean time the tree surgeon came, with four delicious young meh who sawed and chopped and took the top off the eucalyptus tree. Any high wind caused satellite picture damage so if I wanted to watch Gary Oldman – sorry Sir Gary Oldman – riding his ‘Slow Horses’, nature had to take a hit.
The cottage took top billing after the tree. The last cleaner left her steam cleaner vacuum thingy in the cellar. Fill it with water and special carpet cleaning liquid and before you can say ‘Shake and Vac to put the freshness back’ the machine sucks up months of grime and the rugs come up like magic. Well not quite magic, were it magic the rugs would be brand new and we wouldn’t have to wash them every five fucking minutes.
Yesterday, feeling rather better than normal, I took myself out to lunch.
Into the Museum of Tunbridge Wells.
Full of dolls houses, satin shoes, a childens library, Subbuteo (Table top football) invented by a TunbrideWellian, and 18th and 19th Century ‘Tunbridge Ware’ – ‘a form of decoratively inlaid woodwork, typically in the form of boxes, that is characteristic of Tonbridge and the spa town of Royal Tunbridge Wells. The decoration typically consists of a mosaic of many very small pieces of different coloured woods that form a pictorial vignette.’
There’s a sweet little café. Mothers and babies, self employed men on computers and ladeees who lunch.
The young waitors scurry around and serve quickly. I ordered Welsh Rarebit and a pot of Early Grey tea.
My Welsh toast was rather too rare, The cheese on top was raw and the filling of mustard woteva tasted spongey, Still it wasn’t that expensive and I supported the local community., Got home and steam cleaned the rugs then did all the washing, five hours later my vision had gone and I could barely stand.
I crawled up the cellar steps and made it into the kitchen before violently projectile vomiting into the sink.
The earliest documented use of “Welsh rarebit” is in 1781. I think maybe thats how old my sarnie was. Every last crumb of that evil rabbit, went down the sink. I did have to unclog it.
My vision returned and my gut heaved a sigh of relief. I called the caff today and told them one of the younguns had obviously defrosted the thing but had forgotten to cook it.
I had a hunch something was wrong looking at the grated dead cheese on top of the mustardy mess, but didn’t act on it at the time.
The dawter came in from grape picking and watched her ashen mother uncurl herself from the sink.
Then I couldn’t get the top off the mouth wash. Pressing with both hands I finally unlocked the cap. Disgusting.
I sat and watched the traitors, a whole programme dedicated to deception. No wonder Trump was voted back in,
Thank Heavens he didn’t win the Peace Prize, I was ready to write to Norway and tell them what a creep he was, but they worked that out themselves.
Today I’m listening to Radio Three, the old git is in bed, catching up on being over 80 and the dawters out picking Pino Noir. yesterday it was Chardonnay. Who know what tomorrow will bring, Okuzgozu maybe?
I’m teaching two pupils tomorrow then I’m stretched out to watch ‘Strictly.’ My life revolves around TV programmes until November 18th when thanks be to GOD, I’m having the fistula looked at and all being well the line removed from my chest so I can swim and stuff.
I’ve made a casserole which is in the oven, I’ll make two hot water bottles, sit on the settee with the cat and have a snooze. If the old git can do it why not I?