Waking up the neighbours
The sky today is very strange.
I drop off a letter to the county council Death Star and walk to the gym, to sign up for a stone off in weight and a reduction in wobble factor.
As I walk to the gym entrance, with pictures of toned physiques and body-sculpted, weird looking people accosting me, I look up at the sky. There are two sets of clouds, one close and one distant. The close ones are whirring to the right and the distant ones are going to the left. I look away. It makes me feel dizzy.
I think this is how going to the gym on a regular basis will make me feel.
Back at the Grigg abode, I discover via Facebook that I can't have my Pelly Sheepwash fix because my friend has shingles and I haven't even had chicken pox.
Now I am not good at close contact, even with family, but I make an exception with people like Pelly (and Mrs Bancroft, Tuppence and the fragrant Mrs Putter). It's not all about me, for goodness sake, Pelly is in pain, but this reluctant hugger is a bit hacked off because I can't say a proper goodbye before going on holiday.
So I take Mr Grigg out for a very nice meal and whinge about people (our village hall neighbour included) who move to the countryside and complain about things that have been like that for years. I then listen to three farmers comparing notes about the pub cuisine around these parts.
Generally, farmers favour places that serve big portions, but this trio are a bit more discerning.They come up with the same top three as me, only they don't know I am listening. When they make disparaging comments about other places, Mr Grigg restrains me from saying 'hear, hear', reminding me my role is just to listen and observe.
We come home to The Enchanted Village, pub closed, all quiet, and just the lights on in Champagne Charlie's front room to greet us in the Square.
Mr Grigg sidles up to the neighbours' window. Through the glass we can see the TV screen flickering, Newsnight bellowing out and Champagne-Charlie in his low-slung arm chair, mouth agape. We tap on the window but he is dead to the world. Jeremy Paxman has no sway in this household, and neither do we.
So later, Mr Grigg, now in bed, tries Skyping Mrs Champagne-Charlie. She answers, takes one look at his naked chest propped up against the pillows, says a few words, mutters about a problem with the picture and then hangs up.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
I drop off a letter to the county council Death Star and walk to the gym, to sign up for a stone off in weight and a reduction in wobble factor.
As I walk to the gym entrance, with pictures of toned physiques and body-sculpted, weird looking people accosting me, I look up at the sky. There are two sets of clouds, one close and one distant. The close ones are whirring to the right and the distant ones are going to the left. I look away. It makes me feel dizzy.
I think this is how going to the gym on a regular basis will make me feel.
Back at the Grigg abode, I discover via Facebook that I can't have my Pelly Sheepwash fix because my friend has shingles and I haven't even had chicken pox.
Now I am not good at close contact, even with family, but I make an exception with people like Pelly (and Mrs Bancroft, Tuppence and the fragrant Mrs Putter). It's not all about me, for goodness sake, Pelly is in pain, but this reluctant hugger is a bit hacked off because I can't say a proper goodbye before going on holiday.
So I take Mr Grigg out for a very nice meal and whinge about people (our village hall neighbour included) who move to the countryside and complain about things that have been like that for years. I then listen to three farmers comparing notes about the pub cuisine around these parts.
Generally, farmers favour places that serve big portions, but this trio are a bit more discerning.They come up with the same top three as me, only they don't know I am listening. When they make disparaging comments about other places, Mr Grigg restrains me from saying 'hear, hear', reminding me my role is just to listen and observe.
We come home to The Enchanted Village, pub closed, all quiet, and just the lights on in Champagne Charlie's front room to greet us in the Square.
Mr Grigg sidles up to the neighbours' window. Through the glass we can see the TV screen flickering, Newsnight bellowing out and Champagne-Charlie in his low-slung arm chair, mouth agape. We tap on the window but he is dead to the world. Jeremy Paxman has no sway in this household, and neither do we.
So later, Mr Grigg, now in bed, tries Skyping Mrs Champagne-Charlie. She answers, takes one look at his naked chest propped up against the pillows, says a few words, mutters about a problem with the picture and then hangs up.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
I haven't been visiting the gym, so please, let's have a pact to skype full-dressed.
ReplyDelete