Mobility matters

There are few things worse than trying to use someone else's phone.  Obviously there are many things worse, but reading and replying to a text from my friend's housemate as said friend tried to drive in convoy, at speed through rush hour traffic wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done.  It's quite an old phone, with at least three letters on each key.  I had to start again four times before I found the delete button, and where on earth is the full stop?   I have never sent such a badly-punctuated text.

It didn't help that calls were coming in at the same time from passengers in the other vehicles we were travelling with.  We lost the lead driver early on, as she was following her satnav and turned off unexpectedly.  "Tell them not to worry," my friend said, "I think I know the way.  Oh, and you'd better call the others so they don't panic either."  That was all very well, but my friend had dropped her phone in a pot of paint some days previously, so you have to hold it horizontally and speak into the end - but then you can't hear what the other person is saying.  It also didn't help that the other person had two very vocal lambs in the back of her vehicle and we had two dogs in ours.

At least we all had our phones switched on, unlike my beloved.  His defence?  "I wanted to save the battery, and I didn't need to speak to anyone."  My response? "That's why you nearly had nasty pizza instead of nice beef chow mien.

Weigh me down

It's true that I haven't always had good relationships with bathroom scales; my last set embraced the grunge lifestyle and left home to live in a skip a couple of years ago.  I wasn't put off though.  I quickly opened my home and heart to a new set of scales; Max Morrison - a pale, slim, efficient type.  Rather like the android secretary of a Bond villain.  I should have been warned, but I reckon everyone deserves a chance.  And Max has done well in the warm and caring environment of my bathroom.  He even put up with the dust, with only the occasional reproachful glance in my direction.

Sadly, all has now changed, and I think poor Max has had an emotional crisis.  While my bathroom was being re-fitted, I moved him into my bedroom and tucked him cosily away under the bedside table.  Now he's refusing to go back.  This morning I wiped his face, then stepped on to weigh myself.

 Wow, 8 stone 13!  I haven't been 8 stone 13 in years!  But I knew that, whatever Max said, I'm not 8 stone 13 now.

I took him back into the bathroom, set him down on the new tiles and tried again.  Oh good grief, 10 stone 13!

 

 That, I have to admit, is more likely, but I've been on a diet for a fortnight so I had the feeling he was not being entirely honest.

I took him out onto the landing, where he said I was 9 stone 1.

 Pleasing, but less probable and I wasn't going to give in to flattery.  Besides, it would be most inconvenient to leave him there as I'd be falling over him all the time.

Now I do know that altitude affects your weight, so I took Max downstairs.  {You do actually weigh different at sea level than you would on top of a mountain; not much different, but I felt it was worth a try.}

  

Apparently I'm only 8 stone 4 in the living room.   Time for shock tactics, so I dragged him into the kitchen, where he looked round in terror and blurted out the first number that came into his head, which happened to be 11 stone.

 

I can only assume that poor Max has either had a breakdown, or has decided that he prefers carpet to tiles.  I will try to placate him with new batteries, and see how it goes.

Grandma said...

"Eeeew, too much information!" my friend remarked, when I mentioned that I'd had 'a lick and a promise' this morning.

 I only meant that, as my bathroom's out of action at the moment due to being refitted, I just had a quick wash at the sink instead of my usual shower. How times change.  Not just the daily shower instead of the weekly bath, but the expressions we use.  That particular phrase was a favourite of my Grandmother's, but in her case it did often refer to an actual lick, as in, "spit in your hanky and let me rub that dirt off your face".

My Grandmother used a lot of strange expressions, now I come to think about it.  "He's as queer as Dick's hatband," she'd say, meaning that someone was what I'd call mildly eccentric.  {In the days when that's what the 'Q' word actually meant.}  I never found out who Dick was, or what his hat looked like, but as she wore some pretty strange hats herself I longed to see it.  An expression that mystified me completely, though, was the condemnation, "fur coat; no knickers". 

 Picture: Portrait of a Woman in a Fur Coat

 How on earth did she know?  It's not like a fur coat is a flimsy garment, given to revealing all in a light breeze, or getting caught unexpectedly on passing gentlemen.  And if you were wearing a fur coat, it was likely to be in order to keep warm in winter. Surely you'd want substantial layers of clothing on underneath as well?  Perhaps she meant that a fur coat was so expensive that the poor lady couldn't afford knickers too.  But she had a fur coat herself!  And many knickers, with long legs, that fluttered merrily on the clothes line every washday.  A variation on that theme was, "red hat; no knickers".  Did my Grandmother have x-ray vision?  Was the whole thing just coded messages to Granddad?  I will never know.  I can only wonder what she would have said about someone in a fur coat and a red hat.

Picture: Portrait of a Man Picture: Portrait of a Man

Briggate Buskers

I was in Leeds on Sunday, for the first time in forty years, and the changes for both of us have been considerable  - apart from retaining a tendency towards the Gothic. 
 Everywhere looked so different!

 Picture © Copyright AndrewCurtis and licensed for reuse under this CreativeCommons Licence 

The only buildings that looked familiar were the Arcades, and I'd forgotten all about them until I went inside.  On reflection though, I didn't spend much time in the city itself when I lived there, as I didn't actually have much to spend at all.  No change there, then.   

 No harm in looking though, and there were so many fabulous shops to browse in... Oooh, Wilko!  Primark!  {Oh dear.  I really should get out more.}

 Picture © Copyright Stephen Richards and licensed for reuse under this CreativeCommons Licence 

Another thing that hadn't changed was the great atmosphere.  Leeds Varieties  isn't just the name of a theatre, it's a way of life!  There was so much to see and do; I'll have to go back again soon.

What really made my day was the buskers.  Not the Salvation Army Band, surprisingly good though they were.  Nor the line of six or so brightly-clad bongo drummers, although their music was more to my taste.  No, the best music in the city on Sunday was provided by a couple of lads in the middle of Briggate - a joyful drummer on a box, and a guitarist with the best voice I've heard for a long time.  I would have taken a photo but decided that, as they both appeared to be under 18, it probably wouldn't be a good idea.  Shame really, they deserve to be noticed, and I wish them success.

Pack up your troubles

I have enough trouble deciding what to wear when I get up in the morning if there's a chance that I might need to be seen in public that day.  {Regular readers will be familiar with my favourite trousers-sweatshirt-skirt-jumper-slippers-blanket-gloves combo, for days when there's no danger of me being seen by anyone who doesn't love me.}  Imagine, therefore, my stress level when deciding what to pack for a trip away this week.

I can just about manage an overnight in the next county, provided I know exactly what we'll be doing.  Then it's simply whatever I'm travelling in {Which will include layers to remove if the weather gets hotter} plus a matching jumper {in case it gets cold}.  I only need to add an outfit for the evening, a choice of two clean T-shirts for the next day, spare knickers {x2} spare socks {x2} and spare trousers {You never know when you might be involved in a water fight, or fall over in the mud.}  Plus all my toiletries, and a dark towel to dry my hair with if I've recently had it coloured - in which event I'll also take my own pillowcase.

However, preparing for longer trips, or going further afield {where goodness only knows what the weather will be like} or for uncertain itineraries, deciding what to pack is rather more difficult.  I usually end up just taking everything I own, and invariably come home with more clean clothes than dirty ones.  And don't even get me started on shoes.

The most sensible way to attack packing is, of course, to start a week or so in advance and lay everything out on the spare bed as I think of it.  The trouble is, I usually need to actually wear the clothes I'm planning to take in the week before I go away.  Even if I could bring myself to plan that far in advance I can't do it at the moment, because my spare bed is covered with all the coats I had to take out of the hall when I had the new front door put in last week.

There is an added complication for the trip I'm about to go on today; it's actually two trips without coming home in between.  I have to pack for four days in a caravan, followed by a weekend seminar in a city hotel.  Last night I came to the reluctant conclusion that I couldn't put it off any longer so, fortified by much tea, I opened the bedroom door... and was relieved to discover that the clothes I'd washed the previous day weren't yet dry!  That welcome respite revived my spirits somewhat and I am ready to face the task now.  Just as well, as I leave in an hour!

Time for action

After being at home for three months, wrapped in winter woollies, eating buns and not getting my hair done, I am starting to resemble a badger.

Picture by Jonathunder. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons licence.
 

The salon I used to go to closed at Christmas; I can no longer see through my fringe, which is perhaps just as well, since my eyebrows are now pure white.

Fortunately, my hairdresser has moved to another salon nearby - so I only have the embarrassment of assuring the receptionist that I'm not supposed to look like an explosion in the chrysanthemum factory; my stylist knows that, yes, I really do want my hair in short, jet black, punky spikes rather than fluffy curls.  Yes, I know how old I am.  That's why I know what I want to look like.

Sadly, my hairdresser can do nothing about the fact most of my clothes don't fit any more.  This is fine at the moment as it's still woollie weather, but I will soon have to buy a mother-of-the-bride outfit, and I'd rather turn up to a marquee than have to wear one.  I don't like the idea of dieting, but I have recently discovered something that I hope might help... anti-gravity marmalade!

At Last!

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