the little things ...

1. Sometimes the smallest things can gives us the greatest satisfaction.
2. Quite obviously I’m not talking penis size, but am in fact talking folding fitted sheets neatly. 
3. I can do this now having followed a youtube clip from, I think, Roses. 
4. Before that I sort of rolled them up and my little OCD mind would shudder and beat its tiny fists against my consciousness, but now I can do it and it gives me enormous pleasure. 
5. I am that sad!

where fore art thou Romeo

Today I went to a wedding.

I am really rather sad because the groom is my 90-year-old neighbour J and he has been a stalwart of this village for over 40 years.  When I was less mobile and unwell he planted up my wee garden with pretty spring flowers, cut back things that were over-grown and knew a plant from a weed. He looked in on me most days to ensure I was coping and brought me logs and kindling when it was cold. When I starter to become stronger I helped him in his large and quite beautiful garden by admiring it and also holding great lumps of wood while he wielded a chainsaw, something neither of us did very well, it’s a fair miracle we have all our limbs still remaining.

Then J met M. She used to live in the village but she and her (2nd) husband moved to a town on the south coast some years ago.  J's wife died 2 years ago and it's true he was lonely sometimes, especially in the winter months when he couldn't garden from dawn to dusk and chat to the passers by.

Somehow over the late summer and autumn M worked on J and persuaded him to leave his quintessential thatched and quite extraordinarily beautiful cottage with his prized garden and move south to her. We all asked him why M couldn't move in with him here, to the home he loved with his garden that he'd worked on for 40 years and which kept him fit, healthy and spritelier then many 50 year olds I know.  M lived in a tiny flat on a main road and none of his friends and family could understand why he eventually decided to buy a house along the road from M's flat and leave everything he knew and loved for a town in which he knew but one person and to a house without a garden. 

This last month J has been steadily trying to sort out his very many years of belongings and packing up his home and life.  Only 2 weeks ago we received invitations to the wedding, today, and learned that J was moving out this week.  The removal truck arrived on Monday and J arrived at my door with a rocking chair that M doesn't want. It hardly fits in here but I will keep it because it will remind me of J. He looked harassed and sad and nearly every one of his 90 years.  The move is killing him, and I get the feeling that now they are married M won't mind if it does. 

But today he looked smart and happy and I guess that's what counts.  The small village contingent that had travelled down to witness the ceremony walked passed by his modern townhouse to the reception along the busy main road; as one we looked at each other and wondered whether the next time we met here would be at J's funeral. 

Poor M.  Can one scheming woman withstand so much ill will I wonder?

anyone for golf...? (should this be ..? using the dot of the ? to form the 3 ellipsis?)

I only have the smallest of lawns, if indeed lawn can be used to describe a twelve foot square, even when it had grass. Now it is mainly dirt, to call it soil would be to show it more respect than it deserves.  Before this sudden and unexpected dry spell I had mud. Mud of varying depths where small industrious dogs have applied their version of gardening which as far as I can tell involves digging an assortment of holes of various sizes with great enthusiasm and astonishing speed.  This has caused the grass of which there was once a fair covering to vanish as though it never was, although it grows aplenty between the flag stones where it isn't required.

Anyhow, what to do? What to do, with this small and arid wastelend? It needs something to keep the dirt / mud from being brought into the house which it is doing in ever increasing volumes.  If these dogs wore trews I would swear they were digging an escape tunnel and had little bags of the stuff up their trouser legs which they were cunningly depositing inside to disguise their nefarious activities. But they don't, so they must just be shovelling it in when I'm not looking and then blaming the cats.

Bailey is the main perpetrator, but he is leading the others astray.  He told me earlier that he is in fact building me a golf course.  He's just roughing it out at the moment.

("Rough! Rough!")

no, I have no idea why they are all 1. ... one of those days

Dear Parcelforce Delivery Person

1. Since when do you deliver before 07.00 AM?! And how dare you put a note through my door saying I wasn’t in when I was in bed like any normal retired person.  It takes more than a nano second to get downstairs you know, you stupid-little-very-early-delivery-person.

1. How dare you say it will be in the post office in the next village but three on your irritating little note and then not deliver it there; BUT while I’m there trying to collect it take it back to my house and put ANOTHER note through my door telling me you tried AGAIN.

1. And then tell me it's now at another Post Office.

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1. I like these 1 - 5 posts

2. Holiday was wonderful, thanks.

Here we are admiring Gaudi's handywork

3. I think Spring may have lifted its long remembered head and blinked. The forsythia has blossomed and I'm sneezing.

4. I have been officially retired and have a pension!

5. In celebration I should be contemplating a tight perm but my hair has done that by itself, so I'll just have to go for the blue rince*.

*I went for pink instead.