Butter, brandy and summer gloves

"...I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves...and say we've no money for butter..." (Jenny Joseph)

I got a pension forecast this week. I don't think £58 a year would buy very much of anything now, never mind by the time I'll qualify to receive it.

 Thankfully, I already have some brandy, but not much.

I don't have a proper brandy glass though.

Perhaps that's why there's so little brandy left.

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Regular readers will know that I also like gloves.  I have several pairs.  These are for gardening, although only the black thermal ones are really any good.

 These are for various other occasions.  I wear the two stripy pairs with no ends to the fingers when I'm typing in the cold end of the office. Not both pairs at once, obviously. It's not that cold. Usually. I have no idea why I only have one bright blue glove, but I'm sure its partner will turn up eventually.

But summer gloves? Oooh, I wonder if these would do?

 

They would go beautifully with the purple dress mentioned in my previous post.

I suppose £58 a year might keep me in butter, figuratively speaking. I don't buy it very often, and then I tend to forget that I've got it. I found some in the back of the fridge last week, and it smelt alright, but it said on the lid that I should have used it by last July. I thought it best to throw it away. Perhaps in future, to remind me that it's there, I should keep it in the milk jug.

Warning... or inspiration?

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple...."

Some time next year, apparently, when my daughter and her fiance get married. She's already decided what I will wear, and it really is purple. This is a great relief to me, as I hate shopping. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy looking round shops; what I can't do is make purchasing decisions, particularly under pressure.

I was invited to a wedding last year.  With several months' notice, I thought I'd be ok.  A friend volunteered to take me shopping at the local designer outlet, and I had a good time trying on dresses and posing for photos to review later at home.  Plenty of time, no pressure, so I wasn't concerned about coming away empty-handed.  A couple of months later another friend took me to Manchester, where I had a great day and bought lots of lovely clothes.  None of them were suitable to wear at a wedding, though, unless bikers were going to be involved.  Finally, the weekend before the event, I went to York on my own, panicked, and bought three dresses.

I had to take all of them with me to the hotel, as I couldn't decide which one to actually wear until the day itself.   No-one was going to be looking at me anyway, I was only a guest!  Planning a 'mother of the bride' outfit doesn't bear thinking about.

"...With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me..."

I have two hats.  Both are black beanies, and one has 'animal' written on it.  Neither of them suits me, and I don't think either of them would be acceptable at a wedding.  I do not like hats.  I quite like fascinators, but they don't suit me either.  I do have a red handbag, perhaps I could use that.

Not on my head, obviously, although I suspect that's where it will end up if my daughter has to take me shopping.

 

(With thanks to Jenny Joseph, for her poem, 'Warning')

Life in the Land - Brunhilda

Brunhilda settled the horned helmet more firmly on her neatly coiled, flaxen plaits, wishing, not for the first time, that someone would invent a hatpin that could penetrate bronze.  Some of the younger Sisters wore felt caps nowadays - Brunhilda snorted with disgust at the thought - they might be warmer, but you can't use a felt hat as a hand basin, chamber pot or soup bowl (not for any length of time anyway, and obviously not in that order).

Of course, she reflected, clasping the ornate silver buckle of the belt that encompassed her ample figure, some changes to the traditional apparel had been for the better.  Leather slippers, for example.  Slippers.  The clue is in the name.  They'd been lethal on the highly-polished floor in the Hall of the Fallen, particularly when it was wet. Which it often was.  Nice sturdy lace-up brogues were much more practical, and a lot more reliable.

 With a satisfied smile, Brunhilda nodded to her reflection in her father's old shield, which she'd hung on the wall as a mirror.  Picking up a small, studded oak chest, she strode out to the stables.

The light, wooden chariot had served her well for many years.  It was small enough to be easily controlled with one hand on the reins, yet had enough room for a passenger at her feet, when necessary.

Her first chariot, all those years ago, had been large enough to carry four of the Fallen and a couple of dogs, but it had been a real pig to drive.  She'd often found herself arriving too late to do anything other than help clear up the bodies, because she'd been unable to find anywhere to park the damn thing.  At least now she could do the job properly.

Brunhilda climbed aboard the chariot and took a list of names from her pocket.  'Right then,' she announced to her horse, 'old Mr Chance to start with.  At least he's used to blood, being a butcher.'  She opened the wooden chest and selected a rather small, but extremely sharp lance.  {Well, alright, maybe more of a needle, if you want to quibble about it.}  Holding the weapon high in her right hand, with a cry of 'I will have blood!' she flicked the reins and was away.  The District Norse was off on her rounds.