Cwtch as cwtch

Friday August 31, 2007

“It’s only four weeks now,” Graham said when we spoke yesterday lunch time.

“Thank the gods of cheese and tomatoes,” I said.

“You could say that.”

“I just did.”

“Thought so.”

And so, after the usual farewells and frolics, we put our phones down, Graham snuggled down in the caravan and I snuggled down with Dolly in the little brick house.

“Did you hear what he said, Dolly?  Only four weeks!”

Then I started worriting at it. Four weeks? How can that be? I’m sure it was five the last time we worked it out.

I counted on my fingers. Two weeks of old folks, starting on Saturday. Then a week each of organists and accordionists, though not necessarily in that order. Finally, a week of transvestites.

“That’s five weeks, not four, Dolly,” I said. “He’s got his sums wrong again. Should I phone and tell him, do you think?”

She opened one glary eye at me, groaned slightly, and cwtched back to sleep, tight as tight.

“You’re probably right. He’s doubtless doing just what you’re doing. I’ll tell him tonight.”

So I snuggled down, too, and drifted off for my siesta.

Cut through a late afternoon and evening of no interest whatsoever unless you have a deep fascination for sausages and chips.

“You lost a week when you told me it was only four,” I said when we spoke again shortly after midnight.

“No I didn’t. It’s four. I worked it out.”

“You’d better work it out again.”

“Well, if you say so. Hang on a second.”

I heard a low muttering and I swear I could hear the finger counting, too. Then he picked the phone back up.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Not to worry. Dolly and I will forgive you. And, after all, it’s you has to work with all these strange people.”

“You’re right. What’s she doing now?”

“She’s all curled up on the foot of the bed, cwtch as cwtch.”

“Sounds like she has a plan.”

“Oh, yes. It’s a plan. The same old plan. What say we follow her example?”

And that, as they say, is what we did.