This is my 18th official Sunday Scribbles. I have absolutely no idea what I've burbled about in the past. Nothing of any great note, I'm sure. But I'm closing in on my 100th blog. Will i mkake it to the century before Christmas? Probably not.
I have a few seriously busy days ahead. The Library wants me to double up on my workload this week, to make it easier on the following week. The logic escapes me, but i am not in any realposition to stamp my tiny little feet. It just means that I'll be driving about like a loon over the next four days. If you're in Waitakere City, I'd advise you to keep a weather eye out for a white Mazada van. It's liable to have a dehydrated and cranky driver.
Jenny and I went shopping this morning. This basically means that Jenny shopped while I carried. We first went to the Devonport Farmer's Market, which was a huge disappointment. Actually, as it was only three stands of slightly wilted vegetables, it was a small disappointment. So we upped anchor and drove to the Takapuna Market. Much more like it. Stands of tatabounded, but there were some real finds. A baker's stand, where we bought a sourdough loaf for our lunner (late lunch, early dinner) or dinch (early dinner, late lunch). Then it was a dozen free-range eggs ($2.50 a dozen: cheaper than the bread. At that price, surely a mistake) and some crunchy-fresh asparagus. We'll whip up a hollandaise, and feast like kings. I might have to get some strawberries as well. We also bought a half-kilo of Waiheke multiflora honey. Breakfast tomorrow will by a slice of Yarrow's bread and the new honey.
Time, I think, to read. I might go for something brainless this afternoon: I found a Torchwood book the other day: good brain-free stuff.
Havce a great week, one and all. See you on Tuesday.
LISTENING TO: Fiona Pears "Fire and Light". She's a violinist, in the Nigel Kennedy mould. Only more attractive.
READING: A Thorshwood book. I love Doctor Who, and Torchwood comes from the good Doctor's series. Excellent stuff... very sexual, too.
WORD OF THE DAY: Relax.
More Rats:
She had laughed, grasped his old, lined face between her hands, and gave him a kiss he still remembered with regret.
It had been a warm kiss, a soft kiss, a kiss of affection and nothing more, and he strove to not damn her for it. She had meant well, but the kiss lingered on his lips far longer than any of the kisses his beloved wife had given him.
He knew full well that sometimes you had to accept the gifts the good Lord gave you, but this was one he wanted to return. He tried explaining it to Arthur, a decade later.
“See, boy. I loved my wife, and I cherish the memory of her.” Arthur knew the truth of this. At times, and usually on a Sunday, the Old Man would wander off, and Arthur would follow him to the cemetery, where he would watch over his Grampa as he squatted by his dear dead wife’s graveside, plucking weeds from the stony soil and chatting away, telling her of recent events, and asking her for advice.
It seems she often answered, for the Old Man would return to the smithy with a spring in his step.
Arthur had never let him know that he’d watched this ceremony, but he had no need to: the Old Man knew.
“Aye, I loved my wife. And she, God bless her soul, loved me. Can you imagine! And I remembered everything about her. Everything.” The Old Man poked at the fire with a stick, and stirred the embers. “But now, I don’t recall her kiss. How can I face her, lad? How can I face her when I meet her in God’s own heaven, when she knows that I have the taste and feel of another woman’s lips foremost in my memory?”
Jayne’s wagon had drawn into the village’s square late in the afternoon, when she had first arrived in Northridge. It was 1902, and Queen Victoria had been dead for two years; many women still wore black as part of their daily clothing, as a mark of respect to her passing. Jayne Francis didn’t. in fact, she caused a ripple of gossip and scandal when she first came into town: she had been wearing a red rough flannel shirt, a broad-brimmed hat with a silver-chain hatband, a broad green neckerchief, and a pair of brown corduroy britches, held up by red braces, and a pair of dusty high-heeled boots. She had pulled her wagon up a few yards from the blacksmith’s, hopped down from the driver’s bench, coiled her whip, tapped the dottle from her curved walnut pipe, and took her lead horse from its harness, fussed over it for a moment, and then walked it over to the smithy. “Hello?” she had called. “Anyone there?”
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