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.

A well-balanced meal

It was the thought of enjoying a small pot of orange jelly this lunchtime that kept me going through a relentlessly dull morning.  Then I discovered that an over-zealous co-worker had put all the teaspoons in the dishwasher.  Now, I know of some colleagues who rashly open the machine when it's going to extract what they need, but I am not of that number.  Not being one to relish scalding hot water all over my feet, I was left with few alternatives.

Going without the jelly never crossed my mind, and I've been brought up not to put knives in my mouth, so that only left the tea bag squeezer or a fork.  The tea bag squeezer had holes in it, and even I know that squeezing jelly is probably best avoided in the workplace.  Forks, however, are of a generally similar disposition to spoons, being curved; I decided to try one.

The first forkful was fine, but then the jelly started breaking up and slipping through the prongs.  A bit plopped out onto the book I was reading, so I just slurped that up, grateful that I was alone in the staff room.  Inspired, I tried slurping the rest of the jelly direct from the pot, but it was a bit less fluid further down, so that was no good.  I turned the fork round and, holding the now sticky prong end, scooped with the handle.  That was fine, but frustrating as I could only pick up a tiny amount at a time.  By this time though, I'd nearly reached the bottom of the pot where it was rather more solid.  One final go with the prong end and a bit more slurping and I was done.   It was only a small jelly, and I probably used more than the one calorie it contained in my efforts to consume it.

On reflection, I could have attempted making a spoon from the silver foil I'd wrapped my piece of cheese in... and only now, some four hours later, do I realize that I should have covered the prong end of the fork with the foil!

French leave

Having just returned from a relaxing short break in France, I dedicate this post to poor Mr Saunders, my old French teacher.  He wasn't old when I met him, but I suspect he aged rapidly thereafter.  I disrupted more of his classes than I care to remember, but he still wouldn't let me drop the subject.  I argued passionately - what was the point?  I hated French, couldn't do it and couldn't imagine ever needing to speak it.  It was Lowestoft in the 1970s, for goodness sake; a day trip to Norwich was a major expedition!  Crossing the harbour bridge was enough for me, particularly after it stuck open, and the army had to come and build a temporary footbridge.  I was certainly never going to cross the Channel.

However, the poor man insisted, so I struggled resentfully on and, by some miracle, managed to pass my 'O' level at grade C.  I think this was less due to the efforts of Mr Saunders than to my practising vocabulary in bed with my then boyfriend (later to become my first husband) on Saturday mornings.  {C'est quoi ca? Vraiment?  Je ne pense pas que ca serai dans mon exam...} If it hadn't been for the fact that, after two years of teasing him mercilessly I was feeling rather sorry for Mr S by then, I wouldn't have bothered.  There are better things to be doing on Saturday mornings, after all.

Now though, I have nothing but gratitude for that unfortunate teacher.  I have, contrary to youthful expectation, spent many happy weeks in France, secure in the knowledge that I can not only ask for directions and buy food, but have actual conversations about politics, geography and complex family relationships!  My life is richer for it, and I feel that I should write to the new Pope and demand that, as one of his first actions, he elevate Mr Saunders to the ranks of the Blessed, if not actual sainthood.