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It’s still rather inhospitable out there, and forecast to remain that way for the next four days, easing off towards the weekend. Beyond that, I don’t know.
I have to go out anyway, even though, search as I may, I cannot find my big red waterproof, and all I have in the way of water-proofery is a horrid green plastic thing I bought in Carmarthen when we lived in the first Welsh cottage. And, though I’d started out on the portly route back then, and have a photograph to prove it, somewhere, I have portled rather more over the intervening years and the green thing will no longer fasten down the front; I keep it in the car against emergencies, not for serious wear.
“You must have left it on the back of a chair in a café somewhere,” Graham said.
“I’ve come to the same conclusion.”
“Well, never mind. It had got really grubby over the years, and needed chucking out. We’ll get you a new one next time we go to Debenham’s.”
“Good. Next week, then?”
“Only if you feel up to the drive.”
This’ll be the third waterproof over-coat I’ve had since retiring 20 years ago. The first, a Barbour, wore out. This one, a Maine, from Debenhams, was a Gor-tex thing which, while it was guaranteed to last until the sun goes nova, attracted grime like something that attracts grime a lot. The next one, unless I lose that one, too, will doubtless last until I’m beyond need of weatherproof clothing.
Actually, going back to the subject of a trip to Somerset, I’m not too concerned with my own fitness to drive there and back. It’s Dolly that bothers me. She’s perfectly fit and healthy for her age but I’m not sure it’s right to submit her to a three-hour drive. She’s not as young as she used to be and I’m not convinced she could take a three-hour yowl.
I shall have to think about that, and discuss it further with Graham, but I think that spending much time in the caravan is not going to be possible this year. A couple of days out will do me no harm, though, and Dolly will manage the quite happily. Last time I swear she hadn’t noticed I’d been away.
Yesterday evening I watched a snatch of a programme on Twitter. I was horrified.
I’d looked at Twitter, of course. Goodness knows there’s enough flutter about it among the chatterati, and my curiosity bone is still functional. I’d decided that it wasn’t for me, though, and gave it no further thought.
But this programme gave me the shudders. There was a party, in a dimly-lit room, populated with Twitters, all twittering on their iPhones and Blackberries. In silence. Like the characters in some horrid Dean R. Koontz novel, just before the hero, his dog, and his girl-friend leap into action and grind them into zombie-paste. Like I say: Shudder.
I know I’m going to get some stick for this, but someone has to stand up for sanity and the British way of life. I hereby declare myself firmly and finally on the side of the Anti-Twitters. I may no longer have much of a life but I’ve better things to do with the residue than spend it Twittering. Mis-quoting good old Kai-Lung:
None but the nightingale should Twitter merely to emit sound.
So there.
