Yer wot?

Wednesday January 18, 2006

The combination of an early night and a cooperative Mega-cat had me up at a sensible hour, all bright and busy tailed.

So much so that, having breakfasted and romped through my morning writing session, I came to the dining table, sat down with a ballpen and a big mug of coffee, and romped through the solicitor’s questions with a lot more ease and alacrity than I remember from the last time.

“There,” I said. “All done and ready for checking and counter-signature.”

“Gosh. That was quick.”

“If you can be as rapid with your part of the job I’ll nip up to Spilsby and get them posted off to Sally before lunch.”

“Right you are.”

The only snag in the whole operation was that the stack of paper was too much for my largest envelope so I was obliged to steal the one I had intended for use as a mailer to send a calendar to a friend in the States.

“Darn it,” I said. “I’m getting really, really late with this calendar.”

“See if you can’t grab a new mailer while you’re in the post office.”

“I’ll do that.”

Spilsby was mild, and quiet. I mildly annoyed the lady on the post office counter by asking to see her stick the stamps on the recorded delivery envelope. She didn’t complain, of course, but there was a distinct feeling of spite in the thump with which she applied the sticky.

I feel a little bad about that but experience tells me it’s a good thing to do. Last year a similar packet of mine, posted in Spilsby, was ‘lost’ for several weeks in the system, only to be returned from the dead letter office as unacceptable to the addressee because there was no postage on it. I’ve been suspicious of them ever since when they plonk a packet on top of a pile ‘to be stamped later’. This is one package we can’t afford to go missing, not that any recorded delivery package should ever be lost.

As a reward for my diligence and application I treated myself to a small tray of chips, sausage and gravy from the chippy in the market square, and sat on one of the benches to enjoy it. Boy! That was good.

Passing shoppers, mostly, sniffed appreciatively and smiled their approval. A grumpy old woman sitting on the bench wasn’t so understanding about it, though.

“You know that chips are very bad for you?” she ventured.

“Yeah,” I replied, “but we’ll all be dead from bird ‘flu this time next year so I’m enjoying life while I can.”

Strange to say, she got up and grumbled away down the street.

I felt a little bad about that, too.

Back home I fixed Graham his sandwich lunch and made myself a bowl of tomato salad in recognition of my earlier treat.

Then I came over all tired. Funny what a full tummy does to an old geezer like me.

“I’m going to have to have a bit of a nap,” I said. “I’ll set my alarm so I’m up and about when the Freecycler comes for the mower.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll see to it.”

So, when I woke, the mower had gone. Not just that but, while I slept, Graham had been researching the way you connect a laptop to a mobile phone, using it as a modem for dial-up. Tomorrow he’s going to check with Vodaphone to get a clear idea of the charges and I’ll contact our ISP to confirm that we can suspend the broadband account, switch to dial-up while we’re in the caravan, and then reconnect to the broadband service when we’re in the next house.

To my great delight the laptop project looks to be more and more viable. There are a good few items to sell on eBay and the resulting income, together with reader donations [thanks!], will help not only to make up the price of a cheap laptop but will go on to help pay the data transfer charges made by the mobile phone company. I’m going to be thrilled if it all turns out right. I’ve never been able properly to document, let alone illustrate a stay in the caravan park while we house-hunt, or the house-hunt itself, and I suspect it’ll make for good journal. Just so long as it doesn’t last too long.

And so, with a brief diversion to see the latest eviction from the Celebrity Big Brother house, that just about wrapped up my day.

With my tummy comfortably full after dining on chicken breast braised in a red wine sauce, served with a jacket potato and a helping of green peas, followed by organic plum yoghurt, I was ready for the Land of Nod.

“I’m thinking about another early night,” I said. “If they keep on making for such successful and interesting days it might become a habit.”

“You may say so now, but one good late night movie and you’ll soon forget about it.”

“Ah, well. One swallow does not a summer make.”

“Yer wot?”

“Precisely.”

 


A rose from the florist


 

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