Fruity tales

A few weeks ago the annual Shrewsbury Flower Show took place.  This is a Very Big Deal in sleepy Shropshire so, of course, I had to attend.  The show is full of flowers, fruit, veg, entertainment, shopping and endless opportunities to spot people wearing red trousers.

My particular highlights were:

More gladdies than you could shake Dame Edna (or Morrisey) at

Some serious veg displays

Phwoar, get a load of those whoppers

 The children's veggie/fruit art entries

As far as favourites go, I was torn between the gruffalo pictured above and the disintegrating owl below

I also overheard some valuable fashion advice which I feel duty bound to pass on to you so you don't make a mistake next time you are purchasing waterproof footwear.  

A woman was trying on some posh wellies at one of the clothing stalls.  Her friend, watching her with a critical eye, said "don't have the ones with the diamond patterns on, they make your arse look fat".  So there you have it.  Certain styles of welly increase the visual impact of your derriere.  I will be informing Vogue and Farmers' Weekly as a matter of urgency.

A few days after the flower show I met up with a couple of ancient friends (I'm talking about the length of the friendship not their ages, although come to think of it ...)  Anyway J and H had decided to escape the madness of living within spitting distance of London and come to stay in Shropshire for a few days.  They brought their gorgeous dogs, Hugo and Lottie, with them.  As a confirmed cat-lover I never thought that I'd put the words 'gorgeous' and 'dog' together but there is no other way to describe them, look:

We sat in the garden of the cottage they had rented, drinking coffee and talking the hind leg off a donkey (as my old pa used to say).  Anyway all of a sudden there was pandemonium as another dog appeared at the fence.  Hugo and Lottie who had, until that point, been models of decorum went bananas.  In the process the table went flying and the other-half ended up with a a lap full of hot coffee.  Our chums immediately set about finding something for the other-half to change in to so his trousers could dry.  While this was going on the other-half looked at me with an expression of genuine panic on his face and mouthed the immortal words "I'm not wearing any pants".  I immediately shot back "WHY aren't you wearing any pants*".  I really don't hold with a free and easy approach when it comes to under garments. His excuse was that as we'd been late setting out he had leapt out of the shower and dressed as quickly as he could.  It's still a rum do if you ask me.  Anyway it was worth it to see the look of real fear on his face and also to wonder at whether he really thought that he was going to be expected to change in the garden in front of everyone.  I sometimes think I married someone very odd indeed.  Yeah, I know, a match made in heaven.  

*(hello people in America, you probably already know this, but just in case, in England pants=underpants).  

Anyway to draw the incident to a close here is a picture of a dog in disgrace:

Well I've gone on and on and on and haven't even got around to 'What I did on my holiday' yet.  I will spare you that until next time.  

On the cancery-front I've got chemo tomorrow and then a CT scan the following day.  This is scary as the results will show if the trial chemo I'm on has been having any effect or if the cancer is still up to its old tricks.  I can't think about this too much without resorting to strong drink and industrial strength tranquilizers, so for now I'll just stick my head in the sand and carry on enjoying the last bit of summer.