East Coast Story

'Didn't we have a luverly time, the day we drove through Yorkshire!  A beautiful day, we had lunch on the way....  Except we didn't. Not for want of trying though.

We fancied fish and chips, in the car, overlooking the sea. The place on Scarborough seafront didn't do take-away so, as it was still early, we decided to carry on up the A171 to a cafe we know with a lovely view, on the edge of the moors. Closed. Never mind, still plenty of time to go on to Ruswarp, where there's a cafe with a pretty garden next to the river - but that was closed too.  We still fancied fish and chips really, so on to Sleights, where, I was assured, there's a 'fish and chip emporium'.  Sure enough, there is.  Also closed.

We were really hungry by now, so hurried back down to Pickering, where there are at least two fish and chip shops.  The first one we tried was even open... but not until 3.30  and it was still only 2 o'clock.  Back round the town then, and there they were... cheerful signs by the roadside, pointing the way.... to another shop that was closed.

Oh well, the best fish and chips is from Wetwang anyway {yes, honestly, it is a real place} which was on the way home.  And that shop is always open.  Except today.   OK, I know it was Sunday, but there was a time when fish and chips was all you could get on a Sunday.  Was yesterday some kind of fish-fryers' festival?  Had they all gone off on their annual outing?  Or is there suddenly a world shortage of batter?  It was in mystified and melancholy mood that we drove home for soup and mince.

There's no plaice for us; of cod no trace for us.

Salt and vinegar, golden chips will not pass our lips.

There's no take-away.  No fish and chips today.

In cafe yes, but not in the street; no good things to eat.

Lights off, doors are closed.  It's not as we supposed;

signs say 'open' but clearly lie. No-one here will fry.

Just minced meat for us; no batter beat for us.

In the vat lies the tepid oil; still and thick, fails to boil.

No chips! No fish! Nowhere!

The Cat Sat

Hey diddle diddle, the cat's on the griddle!

 

I'm guessing that Ozzy from next door is a bit of an optimist, but I'm afraid that isn't going to be a nice warm place to sit for several months!  Or maybe {and I haven't looked yet} he's decided that my barbeque is his own personal toilet, so he doesn't have to get his feet wet and dirty.  More likely, I think, is that he's realized that it's just the right height for him to make eye contact with me, as I sit at the kitchen table.  He wants to come in.... clearly, he knows nothing about the contents of my fridge {beer and cake} or the fact that it's warmer outdoors than it is inside my house.

I'd love to have a cat but, given my age and gender, the risk of turning into a stereotype is too great.  I don't want to end up smelling of wee and going shopping in my slippers.  My former landlady {a most elegant lady who smelt of Chanel perfume} had a cat - in fact, part of my tenancy agreement was to look after it whenever she was away.  No problem!  It was a nice, friendly little cat; good company too.  The only real issue I had was calling it home in evenings.  My landlady was a university professor, so you'd think she might have come up with an interesting and unusual name for her pet.  But I guess her brain must have been full with other stuff.  I do not recommend standing at your back door, in the heart of the city, shouting "Pussy!"

Keep warm for just pennies!

The thermostat above my desk said 15.7 degrees yesterday morning, which was a lot warmer than it's been, but still too cold to sit and write.  However, as I'm getting a bit anxious about the cost of turning on the heating, I decided to dress for the occasion instead.  After all, I grew up in a flat that was so cold my poor mother had to put on her coat before venturing into the bedroom to do the vacuuming.

I write best first thing in the morning, after tea and biscuits, but before getting dressed properly.  Also, I rather like the decadence of having a bath in the afternoon and then dressing for dinner.  So I'd just pulled on a pair of stretchy jersey trousers and a loose top. No, it's not a tracksuit.  Why would you think that I would posses such a garment?  It is smart-casual workwear, or at least, it was when I bought it, circa 1998.  {I've never understood 'smart-casual'.  I have enough problems with 'smart'.}  It is a very comfortable ensemble, especially when teamed with woolly slipper-boots.  {I love these!  I have three pairs!}  Sadly, the trousers have become somewhat stretched and worn now, and embarrassing holes are starting to appear around the back seam.  I was also still cold, so I decided to add a long jumper...

... which was not quite as long as I remembered, so didn't help much in terms of elegance or camouflage, but  at least it was a bit warmer.

Now, I did, of course, realize that no-one was going to see me, and I would be sitting down.
But I always feel a bit uneasy with only a thinly covered behind.

It was too cold to take the trousers off and put on a different pair... and anyway, I'm not sure that I have another pair that are clean and still fit.  Nothing else for it, I added a long, woollen skirt.  Of course on top of the trousers!

That did the trick, so I settled down to attempt writing a press release for the book.  Didn't get very far, but did learn a lot about "Writing Magnetic Headlines" from something I found on the internet, in between playing endless rounds of Spider Solitaire.

By about half past two I was cold again {despite having made a further couple of additions to my clothing} and hungry as well.  Still in the interests of saving money, I tend to just have a bowl of porridge for lunch.  I could probably save even more if I bought a big bag of economy oats, rather than neat little sachets, but that would mean doing real cooking, rather than simply nuking it.  So I nuked my porridge and sat on the edge of the toilet to eat it while I ran the bath, since this was now the warmest place in the house.  Yes, I know I would have saved more money by just having a shower, but my original intention had been to eat the porridge in the bath, and you can't do that in a shower.  Well, I suppose you can, but I don't like runny porridge.  And it wouldn't have got my feet warm like the bath did.

Oh, did you want to see what else I ended up wearing?  A blanket, and my favourite, fingerless writing gloves.

Post-age

A friend has just wished me a happy post-birthday... Now that's an idea!  Maybe {and I'm sure this will appeal to my contemporaries} we should abandon using numbers to represent our age altogether, and use symbols instead, rather like people do with wedding anniversaries.

"Yes," the proud mother will say, "he's getting to be a bit of a handful, now that he's turned Sticky."

"That boy's far too old for you, he must be Moped if he's a day, and you're still only Inky!"

I wonder if gender would make a difference?  "You don't look old enough to have a daughter of Knitting!"  "Ah, well, I married young - I was only just Disco when I had her."

"Look at that bloke over there - trying to look Rugby, when he's at least Harley, if not Cardigan!"

I rather like the idea of being Post. 

 Feet firmly on the ground.  Safe anchor for a boat, and strong enough to hold up a house.  But not finished yet, still flexible and looking forward to becoming Totem.

The music of time

You'll be pleased to know that I've managed to glue the plastic cover back on my new watch.  This involved the purchase of a tube of glue the size {and colour} of a banana in order to apply a miniscule amount of the substance around the rim of the watchface with a cocktail stick.  I have sufficient glue left to satisfy the adhesive needs of my entire circle of acquaintances for many generations to come.  {The only small tubes of glue available contained superglue which, knowing my level of dexterity, didn't seem like a good idea.}  I'm very pleased with the result of my DIY, except that when I removed the sellotape that had been holding the watch together, a portion of the strap came with it.

I shall now have to buy an orange felt-pen to fill it in.

Perhaps, though, I should submit to what appears to be the will of the Alligator-headed Lords of the Dance,* stop wearing a watch at all, and step out of time altogether.  {Anyone who's seen me dance will know that I can never step in time.  Whilst I can, with a lot of anxious growling and poking things with a fork, cook a vaguely edible meal, I really can't dance.}  What I mean is, why live your life according to the arbitrary ordering of the clock and calendar?  Obviously it's useful for fitting in with other people and not losing your job but, apart from that, why bother?  Defy the hippo-like Aunts of the Hours* who demand that you "act your age, not your shoe size".  Buy gifts for your loved ones when you happen to see something they'll be thrilled with, not just because it's nearly the end of December.  Eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired and get up when you wake.  Alright, maybe that last one's a bit impractical in our modern society, but it's a pretty good way to spend the weekend.

 *What do you mean, you've never seen Fantasia?  Ok, so some parts are a bit naff, but the hippo/alligator dance is seriously good.  I would include a picture, but I'm scared of the Copyright Demons.