A Picture Paints ........................

With the Prof away, I tend to fill my time with the great and the good.
The " Good" was an extra Samaritan shift last night, a lunch out with a stressed friend tomorrow and a planned trip to see Auntie Glad with Pat, the animal helper in tow......the great will be cinema treat visits to see Pedro Admolevar' s latest Julieta and Emily Blunt's The Girl On The Train. 
Oh , and I forgot the mundane too!
Grids need clearing out, the rest of the back garden shrubbery needs removing, William needs his steroids reviewing and the new outhouse door needs painting.

If I find a spare minute, I shall endeavour to reply to every blog message...if I don't Tom Stephenson may have a stroke ....he's right , of course, it's very rude of me not to reply!
Anyhow

I was sent an email yesterday . It had no text or typed message  with it.
It was just a photograph of the inside of a bog standard Southampton hotel room
But it moved me
It was sent by the Prof.
On the impersonal bedside table was his travelling photo frame

In it, a photograph from our wedding day. 

A Robin In the Cake Tin

Mrs Lewis caught me sitting on the back kitchen wall this morning.
She was dressed in stout sensible shoes and was going to pick blackberries

I was expecting our new log burner stove to be delivered and I thought the van with it on, had passed the cottage twice without stopping. 

Our postcode covers several miles of lane.

Mrs Lewis talks without stopping. There is no point in trying to interject, she just doesn't listen . I think she doesn't get to talk at home much, so everything in public rushes out in a torrent.

Today she was on good form, for it was several minutes before she allowed me to join into the conversation .

I didn't mind, I had nothing better to do.

She mentioned that she never really sees the Professor and I told her that he often works away. This week, for example he will be away from home until Friday night. 

" Things are a big quiet for you then!" She said 

Just then all hell let loose from inside the cottage, and I left Mrs Lewis open mouthed as I slithered over the wall like a fat slug and ran inside

Minutes later , after I had dragged four hysterical dogs from under the bed, I found the reason for the upset. 

Albert had smuggled an injured robin through the cat flap.

I know just what to do with injured birds. You keep them warm , you keep them quiet and you keep them in the dark. So immediately I popped the robin into the 1930s cake tin by the cooker and gently replaced the lid. 

An hour should be enough to see if it survived or not, I thought.

Mrs Lewis was still outside when I had finished.

She was talking to the delivery men who had stopped their van in the lane and had unloaded the stove.

Neither man had managed to get a word in edge ways 

It was almost two hours later , as I was planting bulbs in the front garden when Mrs Lewis walked back up the lane, seeing her reminded me of the robin and I told her to wait as I retrieved the cake tin from the kitchen.

Together we opened it up.

Out jumped the robin. 

For a moment he stood on the rim of the cake tin blinking his button black eyes in the sunshine, before flying off towards the churchyard in short half loops.

Mrs Lewis said nothing for a change.

She just smiled.

Apologies

Blogger has been playing up.
It's deleted my blog list, messed  up my favourites compilation
And has upset my settings worst than the Prof in a bad mood.
So please comment on my next blog, even if it's just one word
Then. I can save your comment and add it to my favs
Hey ho
X

Blast From The Past

I was born in North Wales, and lived in the resort town of Prestatyn until I was twenty.
Only then did I move to Chester, then York then Sheffield, a city I lived for going on two decades.
Today I came face to face to someone from my late teenage years.
And all in an impulse visit to a bespoke butchers shop in St Asaph.

I had just dropped The Prof's car in for it's MOT and knowing we were out of eggs , I stopped in the shop to buy a half dozen .
I was just gazing at a large tray of homemade scotch eggs with desperate longing  when a middle aged woman with big breasts and very grey hair leaned her face very close to mine.
" Hello John Gray" the woman said , smiling broadly.
I stood up and looked at her. She looked vaguely familiar but I was totally at a loss of who it was.
Was she a patient I had nursed or a relative of one who had died? Lots of things flashed through my mind, and I stalled for time for a moment by smiling back and saying a  " Hello"  reply.
The butcher who was serving the woman looked patient but  impatiently just stretched a little
" It's Eirian ! " the woman said, and thirty seven years suddenly dropped away as did my need for a scotch egg
I had dated Eirian when I was sixteen .
She had big breasts covered by very baggy jumpers even then, I  remembered.
" Oh My there's a blast from the past!" I said not quite knowing what to say and jumped just a little when she took my hand and squeezed it
" I heard a while ago that you had moved back to Wales" she trilled,
" With my now husband " I replied!
The butcher now looked a little more interested in the conversation as I laughed and Eirian looked theatrically surprised.
" My mother always thought you were gay" She cackled in good humour " I thought you were just shy"

Old Dog, Old Tricks!

Yesterday Rachel's " dirty bum" comment on Going Gently totally left me speechless.

It was a bit like having Freddie Mercury singing happy birthday at a ten year old's birthday bash.

ie. No one can possibly follow it with any degree of success! 

She not only sneaked in the bum comment but added the somewhat upsetting visual of swinging breasts and even  the possibility of a skid mark on the duvet. 

Only today can I bring myself to talk about it ! 

And so I am not going to compete.

I shall, however, share a photo of George who, quietly and with some planning managed to eat, not only his dinner but all of William's, this afternoon. 

With help he heaved himself up in the armchair as the sun streamed through the cottage window

And slept a sleep of a contented and over stuffed Scottie.

First Sentence Of The Day

On Hart to Hart, the glamorous Jennifer Hart would slink out of bed with her big hair, beautiful make up and chic silk nightie and would turn to her equally well presented husband  Jonathan with a purring
""Hello darling.....did you sleep well?" 
In Dynasty, Krystal and Blake would simper at each other in soft  focus over a boiled egg in bed, their  pyjamas neatly ironed like their hair
And in the same vein in The Archers, I am sure I have heard farmerboy Adam Macey plant a playful kiss on husband's Ian Craig's forehead before clambering out of their designer bed  and up into his combine for a day of lusty estate work ( that is before his discressions with Parvel and Charlie were made public in open court!) 

What was it like at first light in Bwthyn -y-llan I hear you all ask? 

What was the moving and touching repartee between myself and The Prof? as George barfed on the bedroom floor and as Winnie snored herself stupid from the living room arm chair.

The Prof " MOR-NING!!!!! Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Me ( stalking to the loo in a hurry in my underpants with the baggy legs ) " I'M NOT HAVING THAT CREAMED SPINACH AGAIN, IT's GIVEN ME THE SHITS,!" 

The Apple Tree

I was busy cleaning carpets yesterday, so , at first, didn't hear the mechanical digger doing it's stuff on the plot of land beyond the bottom of our garden.
I was only aware of things after two Jehovah Witnesses waved at me through the cottage window. They seem to decend on the village in groups from time to time, but never really stay long here after I remind them I am a married gay man.
" Would You happily support gay marriage in your church? " I always ask them, it's a question I've never got a straight answer to, even though all they manage to answer is the willing offer to talk to me.
Anyhow, as usual, I digress.
Behind our cottage garden is a small square of land . Years ago used to be part of the small holding and furnished a small orchard, vegetable beds and flower borders, but in times gone by the plot , which was owned by the nephews of a former owner of Bwthyn -y-llan , had been left untouched and unloved.
Now we all knew that the nephews want to sell the land as a single bungalow building plot, so it was only a matter of time when they wanted it cleared in order to move it on, but ever since we came to the village, eleven years ago, I have used the wilderness as my own private secret garden.

Anyhow like I said, as  I was busy dispatching the Jehovahs, I heard the rumble of the digger, and walked up the lane to the old garden . Most of the land had already been cleared. The old shed, full of old potting up equipment and dusty old garden tools had been flattened, the massive honeysuckle which bordered it cleared and the flower beds crammed with daffodil bulbs dug up and scattered amongst untidy lumps of soil.

The man operating the digger stopped and called over to me. He was a contracted workman and understood the surprise of the neighbours , several of whom had already stopped him to see what was going on.
He asked me if there was anything I wanted him not to touch, presumably the shrubs that bordered our small driveway, but I noticed a single apple tree still standing in the centre of the plot heavy with apples.
" Can you leave the tree a while longer?" I asked
" I'll see what I can do" he said with a friendly smile

The apple tree

Later I walked over to the cleared garden,  and I noticed that the three bachelor bantams, had wandered up from the Ukrainian Village to see what had been going on . I scooped all three up from the side of the lane to keep them out of the way of the farm tractors.
The old garden looked dreadful, but the workman had been true to his word
The apple tree was the only thing left standing .

The bantam batchelors 

Sisters

In the village we have perhaps thirty or so social housing bungalows.
Most are occupied by older people who have lived in the local area for most of their lives.
Two bungalows are occupied by two sisters, both in their late seventies. If you crane your head from ones front door you can almost see the other.
Neither sister is on speaking terms with the other.
I noticed this when I spied that one sister drove  past the other who was standing at the bus stop one day. There was not so much as a flicker of acknowledgement from either.
Their coldness intrigued me.
I have spoken to both, in passing.
One is warm and generous and rather sweet natured socially the other slightly prickly, bitter and sour.
And apart from being physically very similar the two women could be more different.

I am lucky, I have never fallen out with any family member on a scale remotely similar to these two sisters. I could not envisage it,but I know it happens...look at Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine,
They seldom spoke for 70 years.