… my missing sock
When I put my hand down the sleeve of my jumper this morning, there it was. Don’t ask me what it was doing there or even how it came to be there because I couldn’t answer. It’s just another one of life’s little mysteries, I suppose.
Like managing for once to be in bed before 23:00. That’s a mystery too but nevertheless, for once I managed it last night.
It took me longer than usual to go to sleep and I don’t know why because I was quite tired by the time that I hit the hay. And it was something of a depressing night because, unlike some nights just recently, I was tossing and turning all the way through the night and it seemed that I didn’t have any sleep at all.
However when the alarm went off at 07:00 I was totally dead to the World and it was a struggle to beat the second alarm five minutes later out of bed. And so I gathered up my clothes and headed for the bathroom.
It was only a cursory wash this morning because I’m having a shower later (I hope). And when I dressed, then I found my missing sock, stuck in the sleeve of my jumper.
As I said earlier, don’t ask me how it managed to find its way there. On Monday night I wasn’t even wearing a jumper but the fleece that I wear when I go out. I suppose that I could say that I did it while I was away with the fairies but doubtless the editor of Aunt Judy’s Magazine would find something to say about the situation that would have been quite normal 150 years ago but would be bound to be misinterpreted today.
Back in here, in my own private version of 1876, I had a listen to the dictaphone to find out where I’d been during the night. And there was quite a lot on there, which took me by surprise.
We were going to the car racing somewhere – at Silverstone. It had been for saloon cars. One of the vehicles that was putting up a show was an old white Ford Anglia van. Of course we were all keen to urge it on. There were several unexpected vehicles there. There was someone racing a Bentley etc. The race in which we were interested was the saloon car championship where anything could go if it had four wheels on the road and was a production line vehicle. That was basically it. We were there watching this Ford Anglia that was doing quite well but there was someone in a lorry – a tipper – and he was racing up through the field. In the end he overtook some vehicle that pulled off the road with mechanical issues and he was actually in front. He was later stuck in a pack of about three or four vehicles which gave everyone else time to catch up with him so the final five minutes was really exciting. This lorry just managed to have enough going down the final straight to push his nose in front to pass. But we were there cheering on this Jeep that was in fifth place, fourth place was this aubergine thing, third was I can’t remember now what was after that. We were talking about it on the way home, that the first second and third had all been found from the air and as they slowed down after the final lap they all passed a road sign that said “slow”. We thought that it was extremely funny and typical of the USA as well as all the bandages done in squares and useless road markers. Of course I’ve just come back from the USA so I found it funnier still. When we were talking about how funny it was because of the road sign my friend from Atlanta in Georgia joined in too. She was there watching her daughter race.
Why would an aubergine suddenly appear in this dream? Is it anything to do with Monday night’s evening meal? And we seem suddenly to have gone from Silverstone in the East Midlands of the UK to the USA. Anyone coming with me during the night had better have a good passport and a love of travelling.
And then I was in Crewe. I’d finished work early so there was plenty of time for me to wait for the bus to take me home so I went for a wander around the shops. At the bus stop there was a long line of people and a bus pulled up. It was the K39 to Shavington and I wanted the K44. All these people waiting boarded the bus and it pulled away. I went into a local supermarket. I had to leave all of my things in a luggage locker and just go round with one of their trolleys. There was someone on duty searching people as they went in which I thought was a strange thing to do. After I went in I was looking around. I’d met one or two people who had a little chat with me for a couple of minutes about how I was feeling. That’s all that I remember about this dream
Actually I would sometimes take the K39 home. That would go to Shavington and then out to the Hough and Basford. The K44 would go to Shavington and then out to Nantwich via Stapeley. We’d also have the K29 which would alternate between going to Shavington and turning round or else continuing on to Wybunbury and the Whore’s Bed at Walgherton. I’m surprised that I can remember all of that – back in the 1960s we had buses that would run all the way to after 23:00, but now most of these buses have been suppressed and nothing moves at all after 19:00. Such are the benefits of privatisation
After that the contemporary Press has been very kind to me. They were saying that the remains of my noble Lord Shrewsbury could be seen for months afterwards scattered on the ground and various other things that were rarely polite about me as a Duke of the Realm, extremely unpopular with the local peasantry, even though I’d tried my best to alleviate the suffering of their time and making things easier for them
The “contemporary Press” is obviously a reference to Aunt Judy’s Magazine making spurious allegations about what I get up to when I’m away with the fairies, but if I ever an ennobled then you know that there’s something rotten in the State of Denmark right enough
There was a film starring Louis de Funès and during this film a woman invited him back to her apartment. In fact he resembled very much a friend of hers and she thought that he was this friend so she invited him back. He was rather astonished but he went back all the same and managed quite well whatever was requested of him. The next time they met, they both were present at the same time. She was talking to one and then the other, then the first one again and ended up inviting them both back to her flat thinking that it was the same person. It wasn’t until halfway through the evening that she suddenly realised that she had two men in her apartment and one of them was a stranger. She began to have all kinds of doubts and all kinds of questions. At that moment there was an accident. Louis de Funès had hurt himself and there was blood all down his shoulder. Everyone gathered round to try to clean it. In the meantime – no, it wasn’t Louis de Funès, it was the other one who had the bloody shoulder. While they were treating him they discreetly ushered him out of the apartment until in the end there was just Louis de Funès, the woman and the first-aid staff there. At that point I’d gone off with some friends including my partner. We’d parked at some kind of park. We’d been away for several days. I fell asleep and when I awoke I was there on my own with these two dogs. To pass the time I was throwing a frisbee to these two dogs and they were bringing it back again. Then they all came back from their walk through the forest. My partner saw the mess that I’d made. I’d been eating a tomato and I’d unpacked one or two things to look for something. She had a really good moan at me about it. I couldn’t understand because it only took 30 seconds to put it all back again. Then she came across some meat in the van She said “we have some meat to eat. We have to eat that before Saturday”. I suddenly realised that I’d bought that for my sandwiches but I’d never had it on my sandwiches. I didn’t really say anything because it did have to be eaten but it was still something rather difficult etc.
The first part of this dream sounds like the kind of plot that Louis de Funès would relish. He’s played many comic roles where he’s found himself in impossible situations and had to work out a way to extricate himself. As for the second part, I could easily see myself in a similar predicament without very much effort at all
Finally I was with a girl in Scotland. She was a Scottish girl. I’d been going through, doing my accounts, looking through some of the accounts that I’d kept as a child about what I did and what I spent. We were having this discussion about childhood. She asked how much pocket money I used to have so I told her a figure and said that my elder sister had the same. She asked about the younger children. I said that it might have been more because we were a little richer in those days but I didn’t know. She was telling me about her childhood. It was a very difficult one because his father used to drink. There was this alcohol culture in Scotland – people used to drink and quite often became violent if they had a drink. She was saying that her childhood was one of violence and she was quite happy when she left. I could sympathise with her for a variety of reasons. We carried on talking about our childhood as we were walking down a hill through this Scottish town. We came to the big dual carriageway by-pass and had to wait for the lights to change and we could cross. She began to tell me something about her brother who was a car paint-sprayer, in particular one of the jobs that he had done. He’d had a row with the owner of the vehicle over the price. It was something to do with a joke that he’d told about making the calculation and the owner of the vehicle completely misunderstood it and took it the wrong way and it led to this argument.
As if I’m ever likely to be talking to anyone about my childhood. I can’t even talk to myself about it.
When I was driving coaches up to Scotland I had a good chat with someone about the alcohol issue. When I first went to Glasgow in the early 70s when I had to go to the Insurance company’s head office in Perth we were told in no uncertain terms to take a taxi between the stations regardless. But when I began to go again, driving for Shearings, the situation had changed dramatically.
Her take on the issue was that with the pubs closing at 21:00 people would pour out of work straight into the pubs without eating, drink as much as they could and then pour out onto the streets with plenty of energy left, fuelled up ready for a fight. However, when licensing hours were relaxed in line with the rest of the UK, people would go home after work, have food and then have time to go out later for a drink. They would then be too tired at closing time to involve themselves in any extra-curricular activity.
Isabelle the nurse breezed in, her usual chatty self. It’s her last day now until next Tuesday so tomorrow we’ll be back amid the chaos and confusion. I shan’t be looking forward to that but there we go.
The it was time for breakfast and my book. Alfred Watkins is busy setting the scene for his theory about ley lines and there’s a lovely photo in his book that shows Hereford Cathedral with a pond and a hill, all three in direct line, and you can make out in a field in the foreground what looks like a trace of a sunken road that has been abandoned hundreds if not thousands of years ago.
Interestingly, he talks about the Four Stones of Radnor as being some kind of prehistoric marker. So I went to have a look for myself. I came across THIS PHOTO on someone else’s website and you can see an example of the point that he was trying to make – the way that hill in the distance lines up almost perfectly with a track that might go between the stones.
Back in here I had a slow start to the day and then bashed on with writing the notes for the radio programme on which I was working. By the time that I knocked off for hot chocolate I’d finished everything and it’s ready for dictation.
There had been a couple of interruptions – firstly for lunch and secondly for a shower when my cleaner turned up.
The shower was beautiful and I enjoyed every minute of it. Once a week isn’t enough of course but it’s the best that I can do right now until I’m downstairs and have a walk-in shower installed.
However it is becoming easier and easier to climb into the bath and it’s quite probable that I’d be able to do it without any help, bit it’s folly to try it when I’m alone
After the hot chocolate I made a start on the next programme. Once again, I’ve not chosen anything easy but it remains to be seen how this one works out. We’re bang in the middle of Summer next year so there’s so much going on that we need to celebrate and commemorate.
There was almost nothing in the way of leftovers tonight but I had sent half a surplus curry to the freezer a good while ago so I went and had a search around to bring it back out tonight.
It should have been so nice but we had an accident with the naan bread. Having rolled it out and left it to rise, I put my elbow into it when I bent down to tidy up the baking stuff.
The last of the apple cake has now gone so it looks as if I’ll be trying a rice pudding in the air fryer tomorrow
But that’s tomorrow. I’m off to bed now, ready to gather my wits for another afternoon of torture at the Dialysis Clinic.
And while we’re on the subject of my friend from Atlanta … "well, one of us is" – ed … she once told me an interesting story about her daughter when she was aged ten. I’ve probably told it before but if I have, please excuse me.
Anyway; they live in a complex of several apartment buildings in a suburb of Atlanta and when her daughter was aged ten, she asked if she could go to see a school friend who lived in another one of the buildings.
"Of course you can" said my friend "but what do you do if someone tries to grab you?"
"Kick him in the b*ll*cks and shout ‘fire’" replied the daughter brightly
"What a horrible word" said my friend. "The correct word that you should use is ‘testicles’"
"OK" replied the daughter. "So I kick him in the b*ll*cks and shout ‘testicles’ then"
