I cannot account for it. There is an overlapping line of dried coffee rings along the edge of my desk, in front of the keyboard. Doubtless it was me, watching canned TV on iPlayer, lodging my mug between sips.
It’s sordid and inexcusable, I fear, though my recent malaise may explain some of it or, at the least, the reason why it has stayed there, grown there, and is still there until I go and grab a damp sponge to wipe it away. Or expunge it, if you want to pun the offence.
Strangely, it has started me off on a thought train where frozen peas are run in a metal sieve under the hot tap, turned out into a cup and eaten with a spoon. Maybe a runcible spoon. There’s no telling with these associations, and no great consequence in them. Unless you’re a Salinger fan, that is.
Hey ho. I shall take a short break here, stretch my legs, and fetch a damp sponge. These coffee rings are beginning to offend me.
There. That’s much better. Fresher, and absolutely nothing to do with frozen peas.
The missing day was filled with the aftermath of a storm the night before and a great deal of coughing from Graham, embarrassed that he had brought it on himself but fiercely determined not to admit to it. Me, I was no more than tired after the loss of a night’s sleep and a little grumpy with it. Hail storms quite often leave me grumpy and out of sorts the next morning, I have no idea why.
One of the storms, particularly heavy in nature, hit the exposed southerly side of the house briefly, throwing hard hail stones at it in the most abrasive manner. Sufficiently abrasive to strip handfuls of the pebbledash finish from the wall and scatter them on the path beneath.
“That hail seems to be lasting a long time,” Graham said the next morning.
“That’s not hail, that’s stripped harl.”
“Oh. So it is. No problem, I’ll pop out a minute and sweep it up.”
“You shall do no such thing. You just so much as stick your nose out in that cold air and I shall cut it off for you.”
He regarded the damp, dismal day for a sour moment. “No, you’re right. I’ll be good and go back to bed to nurse this darn cough.”
“Take a heating pad with you and lodge it on your chest. Works wonders with a tickly cough does a bit of heat on your chest.”
It did, too, even though he did swear and complain about being too hot at one point. By the end of the afternoon he was announcing his recovery. Again.
“Good. I’m delighted. I hope you’ll take heed and be more careful for a few days.”
“I’m feeling too tired to rebel. Just you wait until I’m properly recovered, though. I’ve not forgotten that nose cutting threat.”
“Tremble. Tremble. I shall call down a blackbird if you raise even a finger against me.”
“What are you on about now?”
“I dunno. Something to do with a baked pie, no doubt.”
Mmmm, I know, somehow the very dark days will make a person feel gloomy sometimes.
I’m still mulling over your mention the other day of “Stilton soup” John. I went on-line and printed out a recipe from the Food Network that is courtesy of a Mr. William Broderick, Port Charlotte Hotel, Scotland.
As a rule, I don’t make cheese soups since husband does not love (or even like much) cheese, but this may be one exception to my rule. Thanks for the mention of it. I’ll let you know if it turns into a reality for me.
Your conversation with Graham not only gave me a fit of the giggles, it set me to dredging my Mother Goose memories. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie… But, it was the maid hanging out the clothes who lost her nose to the bird, wasn’t it? They were humourous political commentary, I guess, though the maid lost her head in real life.
Loved the bit about the nose. You could suggest whips and chains too. Pie…..Chicken pie here, perhaps. Thanks for the idea.
John, do you suppose the sounds of the hail storms, with hail hitting buildings in particular, might rattle around in your subconscious as the sound of gunshot from your earliest days? That would be enough to make anyone grumpy.
Me? Now I have “Sing a Song of Sixpence” stuck in my head and a very mixed memory of driving my mother to distraction with questions about numbers of birds and volumes of pie pans and related matters.
Ah, runcible! One of my favorite words. Wikipedia does a good cover of it, showing a remarkably rich history for a made-up word — one which even its originator doesn’t seem to have had a definition. I like best this, though: “The word also has connotations in behaviour and suggests a mischievous, but not malicious, attitude. Thus: “I’m just being runcible”; “You runcible fellow!”; “No, not naughty, just runcible!”.” See, John? You can be runcible all day long and it’ll only make us smile.
It is cloudy here, drizzle forecast, but no hail.
Now darn you I will be singing 4 and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie.