It's the same year after year. Yet again on Mother's Day I wake with a thumping hangover playing double bass in a jazz quartet. Oh, these parties. The night before, Mr and Mrs Sheepwash from down the road threw a bash to mark their 30th wedding anniversary - child bride, she was. Anyway, it was a great night but I forgot to put my contact lenses in and spent the entire evening sharing an armchair with a friend who had also forgotten to put in her lenses. Between us, we gazed into each other's eyes because we were the only people we could see who weren't blurred. We solved all the world's problems while we drank the white wine lake dry.
So, for Mothering Sunday, no bellringing for us because a) we got up too late and b) the daughter and grand-daughter visited with a chocolate cake so it seemed like a good excuse not to go up the church tower steps and risk a nasty fall and tinnitus from those bells. The day before, a huge bouquet arrived from the prodigal son from Uni (fleeting thoughts crossed my mind of a secret admirer but I was pleased they were from Number 1 Son as two years ago he completely forgot, and he still lived with me then. I did think, however, I must be giving him too much money a month if he can afford to throw money down the Interflora wishing well). We spent the day entertaining the mother-in-law and 20 others to whom we were not related at an 80s throwback hotel in Devon where the food was crap and the service wasn't much better. I kept expecting Joan Collins to sashay in with shoulder pads, big hair and a menu pad. How we put up with such rubbish all over the country is beyond me but if we don't complain, what should we expect?
I came home to find a posy on the bath outside the front door, delivered by one of the churchwardens I think, from the church service earlier in the day. The bath had been left outside the front door because we've just had a new one put in, even though we're selling the house. Well, would you buy a house with a 1970s-style pampas-coloured bathroom suite? Of course not, so I'm sure the new white one from Wickes will make all the difference. Anyway, the bath was left out for a passing farmer to pick up and take to the fields to use as a feeding trough. Within a day, the bath disappeared, so who needs trips to the tip when you can recycle like this? Only problem is, the house has now been re-named The Old Bath House by some local wags who only have to see something for five seconds and it becomes part of village folklore.
A tramp called in to the Lent Lunch at the hall, had a bowl of soup and a pudding and then asked for more. More? A tramp wanting more??
I thought I saw a blackbird attacking another in a hedgerow but on closer inspection he was pinning a female down with his beak while she squawked for him to get off. The animal world has so many similarities to our own.
The most exciting thing on the horizon is the parish meeting - wow, can't wait. In fact, think we'll go on holiday for the week just to avoid it.
Lamp posts are still intact, no-one has taken out a shotgun to them - yet.
A retired policeman has told me two lesbians who run a tea shop in a nearby village had previously been done for running a brothel. 'Would you like milk with that sir, or just massage oil?'
That's about it
Love Maddie X
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