HOUSE OF YESTERYEAR
Although it's only on rare occasions that this blog assumes to offer advice to its readers, today is one such. As you may well imagine, the following modest suggestions are based on well-researched real life experiences.
The first of these is to ensure, when alighting from a vehicle, that all your digits are safely out of the way before closing the door. The penalty for a careless exit can be severe. Should the door close prematurely, observers may notice - as you wave your hand about - that the air is turning as blue as the offended digit.
The second hint concerns supermarket shopping. Should you become aware that the yogurt pots in your trolley are of an unusual brand and size, it's likely that you have absent-mindedly walked off with another shopper's trolley. In this event, hasten to find the irritated shopper and return the trolley with abject apologies. (Jonesy says the woman concerned was not in the least amused.)
My final hint is not to accept a hot cup of tea from your spouse as you are settling back on the couch with a dog on your lap after a good dinner. You may well find, as you drift off in front of the TV, that the cup in your hand tips to one side, scalding the dog. The beast will leap off your lap, spilling the the rest of the tea over your crotch.
We note the advice from the health authorities in the UK that middle-aged people, who are most likely to consume excessive amounts of alcohol, should observe at least two alcohol-free days a week. In our view this is good advice and we heartily recommend our middle-aged acquaintance to follow it. As I pointed out to Jones over a sundowner baggy, the authorities had nothing to say about pensioners. Just a small top-up, thank you.
Our old electronic bathroom scales, which we never really figured out, have given up the ghost. The manual strongly advises users not to fiddle with the electronics but to seek the services of a qualified technician - faint chance! The new scales are also electronic but rather simpler to use. (They come with an audio function that I have muted.) However, they can't decide whether I am approximately 92 or 94 kilograms. I am going with the lesser reading.
As you will notice in the photo, holes have been chewed in the pockets of (at least) two of my "walking" shirts. These break-ins take place when we are out and a sweaty post-walk shirt is drying over the back of a chair on the south patio. The guilty party is undoubtedly Mini, who is intent on the treat that remains in the pocket. As to the moral of the story; thank you but I have worked it out for myself.
Which brings us on to Prickles - who went back to the vet for further evaluation. After studying the x-ray that was taken by his partner last month, Carlos concluded that what appeared to be a tumour might just be an intestine. He thinks that Prickles's symptoms are really just typical of his advanced age. Our little dog continues on cortisone, as curmudgeonly and full of canine contumely as ever. In spite of this, Jones treats him with saintly patience, patê and chicken slices.
One evening I had a magical few minutes in the park as I took the dogs for their evening leg-lifters. A flock of swallows (?) was swooping around us, ducking and diving in effortless wing-dipping elegance. I assume that they were catching insects invisible to my eye. Their aerial display was both serene and surreal. I briefly experienced a powerful sense of being blessed - until nudged by the dogs, whose interest was in treats, not avian antics.
JONES AND CATS AT THE TALEFE
When she gets the chance of an evening, Jones heads up to the talefe (hilltop trig point) 100 metres away for a few minutes of quiet reflection. She is often followed by our black cats, Squinty and Braveheart, who seem to enjoy the occasion as much as she does.
On Wednesday, as we were lunching outside at the Hamburgo, a woman approached our table. Apologising for the intrusion, she inquired in an American accent whether we lived in Espargal. Indeed, we did. "Are you perchance the blogger?" she inquired further. When I pleaded guilty, she confessed that her daughter back in Pennsylvania was a great fan of the blog and never missed a chapter. Daughter, I should add, was said to be in her 30s and a mother herself. So we took a picture while I savoured the heady onset of literary fame. (PS: Prickles was on the far end of the dog lead.)
FIM
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