Signs of summer

'Spring is sprung, the grass is riz... I wonder where the moo-cows iz?'

This field is usually full of cows by now but, so far, they haven't turned up to do their regular summer job of keeping the grass down. No-one I know has ever seen them arrive or leave, which is a bit of a mystery, as the field is adjacent to a very busy road and surrounded by houses. There is a theory that the cows are beamed in from outer space, but I favour the idea that they come up from underground, like pantomime demons on a trapdoor. I have reached this conclusion because sometimes they disappear for a few hours in the middle of the day. I wonder if they sneak off down tunnels to the seaside? They'd certainly find everything they could possibly need at this shop.

Note the woolly hats and gloves on the left. This is Yorkshire, after all. But why, in the name of all that's plastic, would you need a table mat on the beach? Or perhaps the rather handsome gorillas are the equivalent of naughty postcards for the cows to send to their friends. Maybe they'd buy one of the alarmingly coloured toy sheep {which I initially thought were balls of wool to knit more gloves} from the basket in the centre of the picture.

I too usually like to purchase a small souvenir whenever I visit some interesting venue on a summer outing. I managed to resist this one though!

Now you see me....

They say that when women reach a certain age, they become invisible.  How much fun would that be?  You could sneak into the cinema without paying, and pinch policemen's bums!  Probably best not to try both at the same time though, as it might raise suspicions.  Actually, I'm not seriously suggesting that middle-aged ladies should go round assaulting officers of the law; getting a piece of the breeches is almost certainly going to be a breach of the peace.  But talking of breeches, you'd never have to worry about what to wear, or whether, having chosen an outfit, you could still fit into it.

I think I'm at an age now when I can choose my level of visibility.  Faced with a raucous gang of teenagers, I fade into the background.  I can pass a building site with impunity, provided I concentrate and get the walk right.  But, when the occasion arises, I can confidently command attention with the best of them.  At the moment.

My grandmother used to say she had eyes in the back of her head; something else to look forward to, perhaps?... but maybe it was just that she could choose to be invisible, and then run very fast.  {Yes, I have just been watching Dr Who.} Just as well, I suppose; I have enough problems keeping my hair out of one pair of eyes.  Oooh, another advantage of invisibility - no more bad hair days!  Bring it on!

Tea for two

Eee, that were a grand summer we had this year.  Nearly three whole, consecutive days of sunshine!  It were that pleasant yesterday evening, we had our tea in the garden.  I only had to wear two cardigans, and just the very tips of my fingers went blue.  {I am not exaggerating; this really happened.}

When I say 'tea', I do, of course, mean 'dinner'.  I'm getting more used to that way of referring to the evening meal but, even after seven years living here, it still sounds strange to me.  My co-workers say they're going out for tea and I picture china cups, doilies and cucumber sandwiches.  What they mean is pizza and a couple of bottles of wine.  Dinner is tea and lunch is dinner - unless, of course, it's Sunday.

To add to the confusion, at weekends we tend to just eat when we're hungry.  I potter around drinking cups of tea and eating yoghurt as soon as I get up, so that's breakfast.  My beloved, however, can't face eating before 10 am, and then it's a 'full English' for both of us - so that probably counts as 'brunch'.  We often don't eat again until about 4 or 5 pm - Aha, tea!  Well, you'd think so, except it's our main meal and usually involves meat and gravy which, in my opinion, makes it dinner.  We'll maybe have cheese and biscuits late in the evening; I guess many people would call that 'supper'.  I just call it cheese and biscuits (or, 'a wicked temptation', depending on how fat I'm feeling).  I swear he called it Eva Peron the other night, but he was asleep, dreaming and mumbling at the time.  Worryingly, I knew exactly what he meant!

Perhaps that's the answer, though.  Maybe it would avoid confusion if we called our meals by people's names.

"Let's go out for some Henry VIII after work today."

"Would you like to come round for Miss Marple on Sunday?"

"I always have a bit of Miss Muffet in the morning, a large Bertie Wooster later on, and then I'm alright until Desperate Dan."