The innocence of horrid

Sunday November 28, 2004

“Did you say you had to go shopping today?” Graham said as we sat over a late-ish breakfast.

“Yeah. Sorry. I forgot to stock up on beer and cat litter.”

“No problem. I’ll come with you and we can go to B&Q for wallpapering stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“It’s time to get stuck in. I want a wallpaper stripping machine thing, a new pasting table, and quite a lot of paste. Oh, and some paint, of course.”

“Oh dear. We’re getting serious, then.”

“Yup. Can’t hang around any longer.”

So, off we sailed into a really nasty, rainy kind of day. The kind of rain that feels heavier than usual, as though it has considered turning into sleet on the way down but hasn’t quite made it. We got blatted as we dashed to and from the car at B&ampQ, and again when we visited Tesco.

“Oh,” said Graham. “They’ve opened the new coffee shop.”

“Yes. I thought I told you. It’s horrid.”

“I could really do with a drink, though.”

He had tea. I had coffee. The coffee was horrid, under-brewed, slopped all over the cup, and with a subtle under-taste of stale cabbage.

“How’s your tea?”

“I’d not call it horrid, but I have had better.”

“Not to worry. We’ll make a decent brew when we get home. Just remember that this was your idea.”

“Who, me?” he asked, all innocent-like.


Boston, Nov,'04
Who, me?
pencam photo



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