Thursday May 22, 2008
To the holiday camp today, to zonk on the sofa in front of the mid-day TV while Graham went up to meet and greet new staff and check booze levels in readiness for the weekend–another Bank Holiday–and the week ahead. He’ll be going back tomorrow evening to play the mein host role until Monday night, when, hopefully, he’ll be coming home.
I slept fitfully while the lunch-time politics and business shows prattled on about impending social and economic gloom. I tell ya, if the gloom doesn’t come, the gloom-mongers are going to have to scrabble for credibility.
Back home, calling in at Sainsbury’s, we gobbled down a well-earned lunch–well, ok, Graham earned his; but you could say I earned mine by right of all that economy driving–and toddled off for a late-ish siesta, terminated by the combination of screaming kids and groaning, over-laden lawn mowers.
Nobody who hasn’t spent a lovely summer afternoon listening to sheep munching on grass can really understand the horrific noise that an urban lawn mower makes when forced through over-long grass.
Nobody who wasn’t born and brought up in more sober years can understand the horror of screaming kids. If some maniac was ripping their little throats out you’d not get up to see what was wrong, not these days, you wouldn’t.
And then, a bit of computerating and another episode of Buffy. In recognition of Graham’s recovery from his yuckness and his imminent return to work, we bought a perfectly nice bottle of French plonk. Graham wants only one glass, and has given me permission to finish off the bottle. Yum. Yum.
You tend not to hear the screaming of the children when you’re well into your second glass of sauvignon blanc. Just as well, really, or you’d be tempted to go out and obtain chianti and fava beans. Feff. Feff. Feff.
“What shall you do with yourself over the weekend?” Graham asked.
“I shall not make a mess. I shall hold myself and the house in readiness for viewings. And I shall indulge myself in a Ravi Shankar festival.”
4.5 hours of a one-man Ravi Shakar festival
“Well, at least a private Ravi Shankar festival doesn’t make a mess. You’re not allowed to stink the house out with Indian food, though. Remember that.”
“Not a drop of dahl shall pass my lips until we’ve sold.”
“Keep it that way and no-one will be hurt.”
“Oh, tremble, tremble.”