By a regrettable, and egregious, oversight, I quite forgot to put finger to key-pad this weekend, so here’s a jolly little round-up of events…
A lovely, sociable and heart-warming weekend. Circled by the beauty of gold and frosty days, and triumphant arches and bands of deepest red at sunset, I invited friends to come and see my new home, to meet the animals, to walk and talk and eat and laugh with me.
My lad and his pal fetched up first upon the shores of Avalon, drawn by the pull of the pub and the novelty, in the latter’s case, of a new environment. Though their subsequent intensive investigation of the town’s inns was not an outstanding success (young people appeared to be thin on the ground, their alehouses of choice as mysterious and hidden as the true resting place of King Arthur and his knights), we shared food and laughter – and, kind mother figure that I am, I let the hops-and-grape-product-infused duet linger long in their respective nocturnal pits – and did not, for example, let Henry, the hoover, out of his cage to growl and vibrate and suck hell out of the carpetry.
A friend of many years’ duration arrived at elevenish – and, at noon, Sue Vincent and Stuart France, my Silent Eye and writing (and much more!) friends appeared at the front door, laden down with cake and a vast house plant and wonderful good cheer. It was terrific to see all three. Sue and Stuart had travelled a long way to see me – and, for all of them, it was their first chance to see my new abode, the garden and the Gruesome Twosome (Jumble and Pippa).
The Under Fifty Component (Lad and his Buddy) did a brilliant job in the kitchen – and produced burgers, sausages, bacon, chips, salad, buns and divers relishes in the twinkling of a seeing orb, and all without inflaming the kitchen to crematoria-level heat (as I so famously did when trying my hand at roast beef two weeks ago!).
We all sat down around the kitchen table and toasted everything we could think of with Jubilate Sparkling Wine, before sinking into the Den of Iniquity which is serious pudding, and putting away our own body weight in chocolate tort, raspberry cheesecake, chocolate cheesecake and Fox’s biscuits (for those who hadn’t quite reached the Scrape off the Ceiling level of sugar intoxication!).
All present were suitably impressed with my Avalonian Lair, handing out torques of golden praise as the metaphorical mead horn made the rounds and dirge-like caterwauling of local felines in heat provided the nearest I could get to Bardic Accompaniment.
Youth B needing at this point to slope off home, poor old Youth A was left with a drearsome collection of relics (all born at around the time of the Sutton Hoo Ship Burial and with considerably less appeal) – and, very sensibly, buggered off upstairs for an extended snooze, leaving his Trial by Parental Embarrassment and her cronies to get down to brass conversational tacks.
A walk followed. Not a gargantuan job like my Sheep Poo and Mincing Gait Horror of the other day. To be fair, the sky had closed in and was as tight and grey as a cat’s bum in formaldehyde – and, as the weather was also as cold as a wizard’s knob, we simply strolled up to the local mound, Windmill Hill, and, from there, viewed the beauty of the Tor from a safe, and sheep-free, distance.
Yesterday, Morgana, another friend, called round! Great fun! She, Youth A and I ended up in Rainbow’s End Cafe mid-afternoon consuming gurt slabs of cake and yakking away ten-to-the-dozen about goddesses, gourmet meals, gorillas, gibbering idiots and Lord only knows what else.
This morning, knackered though happy after my full weekend, I nipped into town on a Quest for Amplex. Allow me to explain. Jumble, he of the clotted clumps of fur and advanced years, has halitosis. No, that’s not quite strong enough: He is the only dog I know which smells the same at both ends, and one waft of his fearsome breath is quite capable of stripping wallpaper; in fact, I reckon I could hire him out to Porton Down, no questions asked!
People always assume I am exaggerating when I mention his dragon-like expiration – until they catch it full in the face, that is! Amplex was, accordingly, suggested. Unfortunately, nowhere seems to stock it any more – so I think I’ll have to buy industrial-sized packs of Extra Strong Mints, and feed them to my Honking Hound a packet at a time!
Ah well! He’s got a lovely personality – and he can’t help having breath like a rotting cadaver.
Yes, going back to the timely prompt: It is most unlike me to indulge in a blogging oversight of such cretinosity – but, now I am all caught-up. Just hope none of you are eating when you read this…