Blogging from Bridport - Day 16

Day 16.

The cast:

Me

'The undertaker' (husband)

'On the ground in france' (son)

'Office darling' (daughter)

'Nearly 90' (mother)

Awoke bright and early. No slovenly behaviour here today. Stood at the window dressed with lippy on. No-one but no-one walked past. Have to admit to feeling a tad disappointed.

Decided to dress up tonight and inform ‘The undertaker’ of the plan. His eyes light up anticipating black tie. ‘Slightly over the top for fish pie’ I mumble and wonder out loud if my long vintage fine wool psychedelic dress could be bought out of mothballs in time. ‘You’ll look like Nana Mouskouri’ he says in that and your £2 black reading glasses. Is he trying to be funny? Hard to tell sometimes.

Talking of moths, last night’s Netflix was interrupted by a clothes moth flitting round the room. When you have a house choc full of Preloved and vintage clothes its enough to induce a meltdown. I was up and down off the sofa like a yo-yo trying to swat the thing. ‘Steady on old bean’ he says, ‘you’ll exhaust yourself. I completely lost the plot (of the film) and gave up exhausted but not before I’d had a swipe at some troll mouthing off at Chris Whitty on twitter.

‘The undertaker’ sets off for work and so begins another day of abiding by the ONLY reasons you may leave home. Every household in Dorset has been issued one of these today so there is NO EXCUSE.

FIVE, SIMPLE, EASY TO FOLLOW STEPS...

 As part of my daily exercise I take a stroll. Along the way I cut through a row of gardens. Contentedly pecking at the soil is a fine fluffy chicken, happy and unfettered by the worries of life.

Striding down the street I spy 'Office darling' queuing for a prescription. We wave enthusiastically at each other. The highlight of the day.

‘The undertaker’ rushes back from work. An emergency trip is required to Bournemouth hospital. In his haste he picks up both protein packed nut bars. When questioned about this extraordinary behaviour his excuse was that the (only remaining) banana was ‘soft’. I eat the offending banana begrudgingly. Back from his ‘mercy mission’ he asks why I am taking a photograph of a pile of fresh fruit and veg, bought from my wonderful local greengrocer. ‘No banana’s? the question lingers on the air.

There won’t be any Nana Mouskouri hi-jinks tonight, the fun and anticipation has vanished into thin air. ‘Any bright suggestions about what I might wear then?’ I sigh.

‘You could be Carmen Miranda’ he says, ‘minus bananas’…

Another riveting fun filled day passes peacefully without incident in South Street.