Flotsam

Have realised that I am my father’s daughter and my son is my son: Our happy go lucky smiley optimistic selves will propel themselves forward till the camel’s back breaks and can go no further through the eye of the needle.

Cue irritation, shortly followed by sense of heightened potential for irritability.

One of the, untimely departed, cats (the one who was a dog in a previous life) was  sensitive to a sudden dip in temperature (my mood). She’d bolt through the cat flap before I’d said a word. This minute I am so annoyed a stampede of wildebeests would look for a different route to bypass me.

I already pity my son, due back any minute, being subjected to my disenchantment with lack of hot water. I am trying to finish the washing up. And yes, I’ve checked the fuse.

Before my American readers, no doubt in full possession of a state of the heart Smeg fridge freezer (metallic finish), will utter so much as the word “dishwasher”: Don’t. My dishwasher (best of German engineering, unrivalled) and I were cruely separated on account of lack of space in new den’s kitchen. I don’t mind returning to the ancient art of washing  dishes by hand. I have got Marigold gloves. Industrial strength. But I need HOT water.

Don’t send bucket. I prefer running.

U

PS Where are rats when your ship is sinking?

PPS Naturally, it’s Saturday. A bit like a toothache.

Best laid plans

Bike Hike Babe, Jean, Looney and the con that Conrad has proven to be, gaelikaa and Ramana, Gail and Maynard (a match made in one of the ante chambers of hell):  You better get your skates on and book a flight before the prices inflate. Magpie and Lady M can always visit my South Coast first and we’ll catch a cheap direct flight to Dublin from my local tiny airport. Nick can make his own way. Deb may tag along if she must. Ashok will have to put in a convincing plea to attend before I fork out for his ticket.

The eve of France’s national holiday is where it’s at this year. In a place in Ireland, disclosed in Grannymar’s Saturday post. She’d make a terrible spy. Can you imagine Mata Hari disclosing her whereabouts to the world on any particular day? No, neither can I.

I shall be the one arriving late, sporting a pair of dark sunglasses and a brooch of tiny knitting needles, Martini (two olives) in hand and generally be noticable by my absence. Further details to be found over at GM’s.

Wish you were all down here at today’s sunny beach, sardines on the skewers, sand in your sandals. Don’t worry if, during all those decades of your existence, you have never noticed the connection between ‘sand’ and ‘sandals’. The gift of being observant is rare.

Sunburnt air kisses, 

U

PS Don’t forget to bring your kites for pre-Barbecue frolics. Hengistbury Head is famous for its wind. £16,000 will buy you a beach hut to make a cup of tea.

Pissing in the wind

gaelikaa, my dance with Ramana is off. So there will be no photos for you to look forward to.

I rarely go into a sulky strop, in fact never:  Which is why, now that I have,  it is a rather illuminating experience for me. Ramana ticked me off earlier today regarding a perfectly reasonable answer to both his original post and GM’s response which I commented on in one wash [same comment box].  I am getting a little tired of  all the sensitivity (few sensibilities) on some of the consortium’s blogs. Frankly, I have had it. I might as well plant a rhododendron on alkaline soil. It too won’t flourish.

I am miffed big time. Better stick to my usual playgrounds – so much more fun.

For all those not familiar with the meaning of my header: It’s sailors’ language. Look it up if you must or try it the next time you are aboard ship. You’ll soon get the drift.

U