74. One more for the road…
It’s a quarter to three. There’s no-one in the place except ActorLaddie and me. And Willow. ActorLaddie is curled up peacefully; dreaming, I expect, of livery companies. Don’t ask. Really, don’t ask. Willow, at a guess, is investigating the strange oval shape which has recently appeared on the lawn. I am lying on my back, hoping for a car to drive past and counting my blessings. One – ActorLaddie.
73. Tunnel vision
Yesterday was very interesting, in a boring kind of way.
You might remember that, in the early part of the year, I participated in a drugs trial. There’s more about it here and here, if you can be arsed to look.
In essence, the lovely Dr LaMancha and his team are trying to see if a particular drug, currently in use for another condition, has any effect on the progress of Parkinson’s. The trial is now over and the results are still being analysed: a painstaking task. I asked about it today, as Dr LM prepared to inject me with radioactivity.
72. The kindness of strangers…
Last weekend I was, in truth, feeling pretty low. I realise that this will come as a bit of a shock to anyone who knows me. You’ll have stopped reading my blog – as instructed – before the whole cat-food/porridge/iPod fiasco. You didn’t miss much – it got a bit wimpy from that point.
71. We are verses out of rhythm; couplets out of time…
The truth is, my anonymous blog is mostly onymous. My family, colleagues and other mates know my secret identity: largely because I’ve told them. In general, I’m pretty rubbish at keeping secrets. No strength of character. Expose me to a child learning the violin and in no time at all, I’ll tell you where the priests are hiding.
70. The Second Cut, however … Just when you thought it was safe to draw the curtains…
Bro-in-Law is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.
Case in point. Narrow tow path; big bouncy dog. LegoBoy’s bike, lying on canal bed. LegoBoy safe, having splashed his way to the side but the bike has seen better days.
“Well,” says Bro-in-Law, “if we leave it there, it will be a disaster. If we rescue it, it will be an adventure.” So he strips down to his Prince Harry’s, sploshes into the canal and rescues the bike. Tidy.
69. Off I went with a trumpety, trump…
July, last year.
“So are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” said Mrs Jolly-Colleague.
We were at Mrs Domestic-Colleague’s house for an end-of-term splurge of good food and gossip. Mrs D-C bakes-off against the best. Her head-to-head with Jill Archer is the stuff of legends and minstrels still sing ballads to her victorious Simnel cake.
68. The first cut is the deepest…
Sunday evening, autumn, 1966. Muddy paws stretched out, Sheina basks in front of the glowing coals, whimpering through memories of an afternoon chasing squirrels in the woods. LittleSis gurgles, propped up on cushions between Ma and Pa. LittleBro and Action Man are busy conquering the Universe with a fresh haul of conkers. And the Andy Williams Show is just coming to an end. The Cookie Monster has gone back to its lair. Andy turns to us and starts crooning:
“May each day in your week be a good one…”
The horror, the horror! My spirits plummet with the reminder that tomorrow is Monday. My throat is already tightening with stress. It’s all very well for him, I think bitterly, talking of each day being a good one. He is not going to have to face Miss Offord’s sewing lesson tomorrow afternoon.
67. Miss Otis regrets…
Dear Mrs Bloggysphere,
I am sorry that Mrs Jellywoman did not do her blog last weekend. She was very wibbly and might have been a Health and Safety risk as wibbles and keyboards don’t mix.
66. Measuring the Marigolds…
There’s been shaking a-plenty in the staff-room this week and not just from yours truly.
We’re having our PDIs to set our target APS increase across the year; or, in the case of the EYFS, the percentage of pupils who reach the Expected level in the ELGs according to the new EYFS Profile.
I always think it’s a good idea to hook your readers right from the start with promises of excitement to come. Eat your heart out, Dick Francis.
65. And the world’s alright with me…
I have three memories of Spencer John; which is probably three more that he has of me.
The first is that he was caned by the headmaster. This was rare at my primary school and the shock which reverberated through the school community was rather thrilling. Someone was smacked most days in our class – but to be cane was a sign of true wickedness. His crime? I can hardly bear to write it; I’ll put in asterisks so as not to offend. He sp*t at someone. I understand if you need a break now.
The Jelly Chronicles 