Waking up to the call to prayer made a change from the East Sussex starlings. Our room overlooked the garden with two tortoises an array of plants and an old fishing net.
Once we got the electricity back we could see that our room was big, the bed semi-soft, the shower cubicle red earth colour, whilst one wall in the bedroom was tastefully covered in mutli-coloured woven bamboo.
The wavy lines, however, were not conducive to sunstroke, local beer belly or extreme exhaustion. It was like post boat spin when you’ve travelled to Zebrugga and back in a force 8 gale and then have to interview Mr. Roy Hattersly at the House of Commons – but that’s another story.
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blighty
Apart from sun stroke, food poisening, exhaustion, and shock, I am very well thank you. Once I have unpacked, mowed the lawn, done the accounts, sorted my washing, driven to London, found the post box key, paid the bills and emptied my head I will be back to normal. See you then.
The Jolly and the Ivy
This morning I went for my run. It was on with my heart moniter, trainers securely tied, and head down against the biting wind.
I ran along the river, the smells of ozone, the squawks of seagulls and the houseboats bobbing about in the water made for a wonderful 20 odd minutes.
Just as I got to St. Marys church a cyclist overtook me.
A woman.
A woman wearing a camel coat.
A woman wearing a camel coat, black shoes and blue, serge trousers.
A woman wearing a motley variety of clothing cycled past me, instead of using sturdy bicycle clips the woman opted for:
wait for it
TAN POP SOCKS.
TAN POP SOCKS!
TAN POP SOCKS over her blue, serge turn-ups.
Tan pop socks over her blue serge turn-ups as she cycled past me in Battersea.
That kept me going for at least 15 of those 20 odd minutes.
The fact that I noticed her meant I was back in the land of the living, the last few weeks, I’ve had my head up my own glycaemic index.
LOOK! I’ve already had one bottle of champagne. played one game of scrabble which the Yorkshire terrior won. We are finally alone. All the girls are doing their own thing. My mother is happily esconced with some Dickens. Every body I know is with somebody else so all is well with the world. I am … Read more
Aberdeen Anguish
The sky feels heavy, my eyebrows have sunk so low they have settled on my top lip like Che Guevara’s moustache.
My forehead is concertina-ed and there’s a very slight niggle of an ache starting at my temples.
My clothes smell of petrol – I had to pull the petrol pump pipe over the car as I had parked the wrong way round in the garage. When I pulled out the nozzle petrol spewed out over the boot, my thighs and my t-shirt. I arrived at my acupuncturist smelling like a North Sea oil rig.
Not that I have ever been on an oil rig, although Jim and I did once spend a day in bed in Aberdeen.
We were touring with our theatre group and had one day off between gigs. The weather was churlish and grey and we had nowhere else to go. The digs we were staying in had an interesting beamed ceiling and a big bed. There was no choice.
You could say that today feels a little like that Aberdeen afternoon. The petrol pump attendant was a Siekh from Stirling and Battersea feels as grey and gritty as Bannockburn.