In which I am led astray

As you’ve probably guessed by now, I like to lead a blameless life of cat worship and failed sorties into the world of knitting.  However, this summer I have been repeatedly led astray.

Firstly there was the Normandy holiday

where I was on a wine and cheese drip for the duration.

Then, on my return to Shropshire my old pal M came up to stay.  She lugged a bursting-at-the-seems wheelie trolley all the way by train from London.  The trolley contained a few clothes but was mostly full of all the ingredients for making mojitos.  It would have been rude not to drink them after all that effort.  And, if I drank more than anyone else, surely that just goes to show my dedication to the cause of hospitality and politeness, rather than any indication of greed and alcoholism.  

M did another bad thing.  She introduced me to Spotify.  Now how am I ever going to get anything done ever again when I’m addicted to finding all sorts of music and fighting off the other-half when he tries to add such monstrosities as Duran Duran and ZZ Top to my playlist (oh the horror)?

T, another old pal came to visit at the same time as M and we started a sensible grown-up conversation about the problems with creosote seepage when using old railway sleepers in the garden.  We reckoned if you built a seat from them you’d need to devise some sort of bum pad to protect your bottom.  The conversation rapidly degenerated to replacing words in song/book/film/titles with bum pad.  This went on intermittently for a whole day inducing increasing amounts of hysteria.  In the evening we went to the pub and ended up making spectacles of ourselves by hitting our heads on the table and sobbing when the other-half suddenly blurted out ‘Chitty Chitty Bum Pad’.  Hmm, maybe you had to be there. 

Perhaps I should add that, during a previous visit to this particular pub, sis no 3 tried to kill a dog – I’m scared to go back there again, who knows what will happen next time.

Oh alright, she didn’t exactly try to kill a dog.  She swept a wasp from the table with her hand (in a valiant effort to save the other-half who is horribly allergic to wasp stings).  Her bravery was rewarded by fear and trauma, as the dog sitting next to our table quickly snapped his jaws, grabbed the wasp and swallowed it in one gulp.  We think the dog was OK but didn’t hang around too long to find out.  Oh come on, it wasn’t as if it was a cat.  Get a sense of proportion people.

Anyway, after all that excitement the other-half and I were delighted to be invited for a meal at the house of old chums, and very good cooks, J and M.  I was looking forward to an evening of gentle conversation and decorum.  Instead I was forced to drink red wine from eight that evening until five o’clock the following morning.  I say forced because, although I can’t remember the details, I’m sure I would never be so foolish as to do such a thing left to my own devices.  J and the other-half wimped out and went to bed around 3am but M and I carried on determinedly.  Actually I suspect poor M desperately wanted to go to bed but I wouldn’t stop yakking.  Thankfully I can’t remember the utter bilge I was talking (please M, be kind, don’t remind me).  Hats off to M though, not only did she stay the course but she also attended a four year old’s birthday party the following day.  She’s made of sterner stuff than me.  I just sat around whimpering with a hangover that lasted two and half days. 

So, as you can imagine, I am now back to the straight and narrow, worshipping Cyril the three-legged monster cat and thinking about knitting a scarf. 

Two days until the scary oncology appointment, not that I’m worried or anything of course.  Back to diverting myself with Spotify I think.  A prance around the kitchen (while no-one is looking) to Jolene, should put the world to rights.