Lockdown from Bridport - Part 3 - Day 34

 

'The Undertaker' is on call today and gosh don't I know it, if you get my drift... 'You're free to go off and do whatever you want' he says 'don't let me hold you back'. 'Very magnanimous of you I'm sure' I say 'under the present circs!'  The possibilities dance before my eyes until I remember that its nigh on impossible to do anything very much that you may have previously construed as exciting. 

A friend had very kindly donated a vast amount of clothing which although mostly new needed 'refreshing'. It's all very large and there was a particularly fetching faux fur coat. It said 'professional dry clean' only which mainly is a load of codswallop so I stuck it on a wool wash. It's now hanging on the line looking like a bedraggled bear. 'Hope the neighbours don't think its something you've shot' I said jokingly to 'The Undertaker'. It's so vital to get your laughs where you can these days...

I don't understand how our central heating works, there's some new-fangled  system and pages and pages of instructions on how it operates but its beyond me. It was beyond the boiler engineer who visited the other week too. He had the bare faced cheek to tell me that it was a waste of money having one's boiler serviced and then to add insult to injury sat for the remaining hour of his visit, (for which I was charged an eye watering amount), in his car in the sun staring happily down at his phone. Our logs are damp too so 'The Undertaker' suggests putting them on the radiator to dry. The uselessness of this suggestion isn't lost on me (judging by the icicles forming on said radiators!) so in sheer desperation and to take my mind off my current dilemma, I rummage in the kitchen cupboards in search of biscuits. I find a small tin from a Christmas hamper, 'wonderful Copenhagen' it proclaims, Danish butter cookies. Cheered by my 'find' I dive in. Copenhagen is reputed to be the happiest city in the world but it won't be through their butter biscuits, which I find to be most disappointing!

Finally through luck rather than skill the heating springs into life to compliment the raging fire I have managed to achieve in the mean little grate in the downstairs sitting room. 'The Undertaker' piles on more logs to dry them out which may well lead to a chimney fire judging by the height of the flames. People walk by looking hunched and cold, and I note, interestingly, that everyone is wearing a woolly hat. There is a weak sun filtering through the window and on the sill the deep blue hyacinth is finally beginning to flower. The amaryllis (on the kitchen window sill) has also flowered. I had expected it to be of the rich vibrant red variety but instead it's a pale pink with a delicate stripe. I don't mind telling you that I find varieties of flowers that have been fiddled with offensive and I say so. 'Oh you are a grump' he says irritably. The phone goes, its a neighbour sounding quite concerned. 'I think there's a dead cat on your lawn' they say. I rush out in alarm only to find the wretched coat has blown off the line and is lying face down on the lawn. I haven't got time to deal with it right now as the fire has taken off quite considerably and dead coats are the least of my problems. All is well however, the sitting room feels pleasingly warm, which is a triumph. I draw my chair up and pop my feet on the hearth. Maybe I should bring the coat in and settle it down in front of the flames to dry out.