I’m peeping over my parapet of books to wave at you all and promise that I am still here. I’m reading until my eyes cross and my bum goes numb. Luckily the weather is absolutely foul so it’s not like I could be out there, tripping the light fantastic instead. It would be more like dripping the light fantastic.
It nearly was at ten o’clock last night when the kitchen ceiling made ominous dripping noises. We had to send poor Tallulah out onto the flat roof to unblock the downspout of leaves before we had a major plaster crash. She looked very fetching in her wellies and cagoule, striding about the roof, saving the day.
It brought back horrible memories of Jason and I trying to hoist a large computer server box up there (in order to get into the loft in a very roundabout way), using a piece of blue baler twine and a lot of swearing during a snow flurry one year.
I’m glad I’m now considered too old and inflexible to go out on the roof in adverse weather conditions. There are some benefits to the ageing process.
I have nothing much else to tell you. So I will regale you with a story from our Yorkshire travels which is still making me laugh, days later.
On a particularly recalcitrant bit of motorway, we were listening to the radio when Morrissey a came a wailing on. Tilly said:
‘I think this is swede head.’
Me: ‘It isn’t swede head. It’s suede head.’
Tilly: ‘Swede/suede it’s all the same to me.’
Me: ‘You won’t say that when I give you a swede with a carving of Morrissey’s face on for your birthday.’
Tilly: ‘I would love that.’
Me (darkly): ‘Sadly, I know that you would.’
Oscar (intoning solemnly from the back of the car): ‘You mustn’t smoke swede, it’s very dangerous.’
Tallulah: ‘It’s weed, you idiot. WEED! Not Swede.’
I was recounting this to Jason on our return. He said:
‘You’d need some bloody big rolling papers to smoke a swede.’