Where’s the honey?

Thursday April 24, 2008

Yesterday’s excursions and alarrums have left me feeling a teensy bit jaded today.  I’ve managed to find makings for a tasty little lunch, saying that I shall do Sainsbury’s late this afternoon “when this band of rain has moved away”.  I probably shall, too, unless I can find a really good reason not to.

I was going to go on:  “When I’m tired I seldom want to go out”  but that’s not entirely true.  The fact is I have very little inclination to go out at all just now, tired or not.  I’m happy and comfortable in my nice little house, and not much tempted to swap it for smelly old Bridgwater.  I don’t hate the town, and I’m not going to beseech the bombs to come fall on it.  It’s just that it’s not the kind of place of which you might inquire:  “And is there honey still for tea?”

 

 

 

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6 responses to “Where’s the honey?

  1. Do what you must, rest when you can, and enjoy the day to the fullness thereof–or some such thing.

  2. medical do-da and messed up routine always leaves me a little like you describe too. I think it does most of us.

    Any little seaside town around the place you could nip to, or a nice lake, or a little wooded area? Leaving the house when there’s not much exciting to tempt you away is difficult. I know it’s probably difficult with having to be on hand for potential viewers, but there must be something close by?

  3. Kayper in Dallas

    I have days like that, too. Like today. :=)

  4. I’d like to just go back to bed today. Sinus headache again.

  5. “And is there honey still for tea?” seems to be quite the old British joke. I heard it used in comedy routine from the late 50s. Perhaps you could explain the full meaning behind it for this poor ignorant American.

  6. It’s a reference to a poem by Rupert Brooke — “The Old Vicarage, Grantchester” Christy. It’s a beautiful piece but refers to an England that was lost during the First World War. The comedy routines made fun of those who still clung to old, polite ways.

    The bombs come from another poem, by John Betjeman. Called ‘Slough’, the opening verse goes:

    Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
    It isn’t fit for humans now,
    There isn’t grass to graze a cow.

    The lack of grass is one of the reasons I’m uncomfortable in Bridgwater and Lou is right, I ought to motor off a little way and enjoy the air on the hills. The price of petrol puts me off, I’m afraid, and only suicidal people cycle across main roads here… 🙂

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