“If you give me any more trouble, I shall visit you in the small hours and put a bat up your nightie.”
I was thinking, last night, that whilst the absence of a TV has been unadulterated joy, I will miss, in the run-up to C*****mas, those glorious “Famous Grouse” adverts.
So, what do I see this morning, parading across the garden, but an actual grouse! I hummed the theme tune at him, but got a beady look in response. I presume he gets that a lot.
Anyway, I bought some whisky. I figured it was a sign.
… for a change! Friday night was Music Night down at the Freemason’s Hall, Lodge 335 - not the sort of venue I’m accustomed to, but a bunch of local musos had decided that there just wasn’t enough going on around here for those of (ahem) middle years, so they have done something about it, and very enjoyable it was too - beer, dancing, proper r’n'b.
And so it was with a hangover that I found myself on the ferry to Gourock at 9.50 the next morning, surrounded by numerous exuberant men in kilts waving bottles of Buckfast. All I wanted was to nip to Glasgow to shop for R’s birthday, and I get endless renditions of “Flower of Scotland” down my earholes! And it was raining. A lot.
And then Sunday afternoon came round, as it does, and I was blithely saying yeahyeahyeah when various people pointed out that, when scuba diving, it is very important to Breathe Normally. Easy peasy, I thought.
And then I was underwater. And breathing. And my busy little brain was screaming:
whatthebuggeringhellyou’renotsupposedtobreatheUNDERWATER!
In short, there were lamentably few “finger-and-thumb-in-a-circle” (indicating “everything okay”) gestures, but quite a lot of “thumbs-up” (indicating, counter-intuitively, ”get me out of this water and back into proper air NOW!”) gestures.
Hmmmm. As R. pointed out, it’s millions of years since I’ve been able to breathe in that environment. As I pointed out, it’s only been 40-something years, matey-boy. Whatever. It’s a very weird experience, and one which will only be repeated if I can override the aforementioned mental screaming …!
The weeks preceding Guy Fawkes’ Night can be a trial for the average pet owner.
Unless you happen to be temporarily fostering a small ginger-and-white kitten.
You know, the sort of kitten who stands at the kitchen window, paws pressed up against the glass, making “oooo” and “aaah” noises and plainly having a bloody marvellous time.
Oh, and home-made pesto? Really really really garlicky home-made pesto? He likes it.
Bonkers.