I met a little old lady the other day (my life, for a short while anyway, is going to consist of meeting a large number of little old ladies. And little old men, too.) who told me a story that absolutely rocked my socks.
She's a housebound individual. She's mobile, but only just. She depends to a huge degree on the good offices of other people coming to deliver her the bits and pieces sxhe needs for a comfortable and reasonably fulfilling life.
I bring her the reading material she needs to keep the brain ticking over.
A few days before I visited her, her televisioon set gave up the ghost. It died. It futzed out, went on the fritz, FUBARd itself, broken died, gone to the great Coro Street in the sky.
The day it died, the woman from her pharmacist arrived, with her monthly delivery of medication. Housebound people use drugs far more than you spotty teenagers, let me tell you! Anyway. The LOL (little old lady, munchins: not Laugh Out Loud.) told her friendly pusher the problem, and showed her the Harvey Norman that had co-incidentally come that day.... The dealer went straight to the local Harvey Norman, bought a tele on her own Mastercard, and had them deliver it.
Naturally, the LOL paid the Good Sam back immediately... but that wasn't the point. The point was simply that the Good Sam had decided to just go out and do it - and she hadn't asked to be repaid.
People are good.
READING: Brent Gherlfi's “Volk's Game". Russian crime. Uber-violent.
LISTENING TO: Blondie's Greatest Hits. I used to know a man who had been told to Faar Cough by Debbie Harry. Ah, such is fame....
WORD OF THE DAY: Samaritan. Just do it.
MORE Quiet Woman.
“No, he won’t. Didn’t he tell you? The coach has benched him today. He’s not playing. Given him the day off.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. He did mention it last night.”
The Coach of Russell’s footy team’s changed recently. It used to be that big joker up the road, Henry Talbot, but they’ve gone off somewhere. Rumour is that he’s crook, which would be a shame: they're good people. I like her. No pretensions, no BS. And I don’t know what it is she does to gardens, but I swear my roses perk up when she wanders in for a cuppa. Anyway, Henry passed the Mantle of Coach to Chutty, who can be a bit of a tartar. But more about that later.
I like my kitchen. Nothing too flash. Well, there’s nothing that’s too flash in the whole Wrigley household. I put my foot down a couple of years ago, though, and had it re-modelled. It’s a galley-style kitchen, which I really like. I’m surrounded by bench space. The end of the U shape is exactly 2.8 metres across, and 2.9 high: and that’s my pantry. I store everything in there, from the pots and pans and toaster and electric jug and cake-mixer and cups, saucers, plates and whatnot to the cornflakes, Thai sauces, and spuds. And all the rest of the food that’s not in the fridges or freezer. Along one of the sticks of the U, the one that faces the outside wall, is a bench. Miles of it: 3.4 metres. Under it is my dishwasher, small fridge, and some open shelves where I keep, well, stuff. The other stick of the U, another 3.4 metres, faces the breakfast nook, and I can see into our living cum dining cum slopping-about room, as well. Colours? Sensible greys and yellows. This side of the U has a small splash-back, as that’s where my double sink, with kitchen-pig, is. And more shelves, and another under-bench fridge, and a freezer.
From here I rule my roost. The living cum – look, we call it the slop room, so I’ll just keep on with that nomenclature, all right? The slop room is big. It has the big table and chairs, bookshelves along the internal wall, fireplace, stereo, tele, a couple of couches and Chutty’s La-z-Boy chair. It vibrates. We’ve put that feature to good use a couple of times, too.