We’re back from Knaresborough. Nice place, rains a lot. Find of the trip was the brand spanking new Moto services at Wetherby. Not something to get excited about normally except that it contained a Costa Coffee franchise – curious that as CC is usually to be found only at Road Chefs. But I wasn’t complaining as I slurped my popcorn bucket sized latte washed down with a side order of pain au raisin.
Two weird things with the van. The dodgy battery behaved itself impeccably and the fridge that was kaput started working again. Goody, chilled KitKats. One cute thing. Ranger getting caught in the homicidal nets (still not swapped over) and doing a lovely impression of a little Amish boy, just like in Witness. Oooh, note to self: do not let Ranger greet you again after 7 hours separation within the confines of a motorhome. Although A was ‘at home’ all day, as soon as Mum trooped in, he went, well, I can only describe it as ‘ballistic in a washing machine’. Round and round and round, jumping from one sofa to another, jumping up, down, all around, barking, growling, crying, singing, all this carry on for a good five minutes. How we weren’t ejected from the site I have no idea. And we really have to keep our noses clean here as this will be our regular haunt when I have northern meetings with my new client.
The reason for our mini-adventure - my induction - was lengthy and spirit sapping but at least we did it all in one day, allowing us to start trundling home this morning. Then I picked up an email from the inducters inviting me to an awards ceremony next week. I can’t really say no and as we’re up that way anyway (heading for a Snecklifter ashore rendezvous), I’m facing the prospect of having to put on a frock. Now me and frocks just don’t go – I have a genetic predisposition to trembling hot sweats if dresses are even mentioned. I had an enforced rummaged through the wardrobe today and dragged out this black thing that has that chic ‘shapeless sack’ look - despite oscillating up and down 16 dress sizes over the years, it still fits, except that it touches more than it used to. Strange. Never mind – I’ll go for the loads-of-jewellery-round-the-neck-to-distract-them option.
I will need to get some new opaque tights mind – and one of those old roll-on things my mother used to wear to keep the wretched things up. I don’t want to be worried about the elevation of my pantyhose, that’s for sure. You can’t be talking to a senior partner at a law firm with visions of Nora Batty playing around the edges of your mind. Fingers crossed, after next Thursday, I can put the whole ruddy lot back in the wardrobe for another five years. Together with the silly pointy shoes that I dug out of the shoe rack today, complete with the sort of dusty carapace not seen since Miss Haverhsam renounced Mr Sheen. I say pointy, it’s just that my G width foot finds even Timberlands pinch a bit. My toes are already cramped in pain in anticipation. Sod it – maybe I should just be my maverick self and turn up in jeans and trainers? It’s not as if anyone will be looking at me...And the award for the worst dressed person at tonight’s dinner goes to....the girl with greyhound fluff on her bum. Hurrah!
Miffy works out by opening her eye
4 comments:
You could go as Nora, 'A' as Compo and tell the hosts that you thought it was fancy dress!!!!
There's always a smart arse when you don't want one!;-)
Lesley mentioned your plight. You can always borrow my Bob the Builder braces to hold up your tights!
Joe
Excellent. They're probably bright yellow so just my colour!
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