Graham announced the fitness of the living room floor for walking purposes today. Dolly was the first to act on the information:
~~+~~
Dolly reflects
~~+~~
“What do you think?” Graham asked for the umpteenth time.
“Beautiful. It’s the return of the 70s wet-look. My mother polished linoleum for a lifetime in pursuit of a shine like that.”
“What? You mean it’s too shiny?”
Oh. Good. Grief.
Actually our DIY man wasn’t feeling too chipper today, and stayed home in the warm, claiming an “upset tummy” as the problem. Poor soul, he was feeling poorly. Stayed home instead of coming out with me to the doctor’s. It was blood testing day; they hadn’t told me to bring a urine sample so I was obliged to undergo the indiginity of peeing into a tiny sample tube. I was so anxious to avoid making a mess that I could produce no more than a couple cc’s. I made light of it:
“Sorry, luv. Best I can do at short notice. Will this be enough do you think?”
[gratifying laughter] “Well, if it isn’t, they’ll ask for more.”
And off went the bloods and sample to the hospital for testing. I’m to start phoning first thing Monday or Tuesday morning to get an appointment and diagnosis of the results.
When I emerged from the surgery it had turned grey and windy and very cold so I decided against Sainsbury’s, motoring instead to the local Tesco at Neath Abbey for petrol and some goodies suitable for a tender stomach. First time I’ve bought petrol since just before Christmas and I was flummoxed to find that the price has gone up to £1.14p a litre. So instead of filling the tank I stopped when the counter tipped over £30. Just as well I don’t do a lot of motoring these days.
By then it really was collar-clutching cold so I came home into the warm, bearing goodies.
“Coffee?” asked Graham, who was waiting for the kettle to boil.
“Please. What’s that you’re brewing for yourself?”
“Hot water.”
“Oh dear. Poor luv. Don’t drink too much of that or it’ll make you fat.”
I paid for that crack not five minutes later when I sat at my desk and promptly spilt a mug of very hot coffee over myself.
I’m always reassured to discover that there is some justice in the world, even when it’s at my expense.
Little justice was meted out at the Iraq Enquiry on Tony Blair’s day, sadly. He emerged all smiles and happiness, just like the Tony we used to know and loathe.
And, finally, the thought came to me in an idle moment that, had Holden Morrissey Caulfield been non-fictional, he’d be older than me today. If someone hadn’t smacked the tedious little prat upside the head with a sharp brick, that is.
Like I say, it’s somewhat gratifying to discover a trace of justice in the world. With or without the brick.
