Monday, August 21, 2006
One Week Back.
I wrote a lovely long post about my hols with Dad. You know full of interesting tid-bits and statistics. Until I realised it was dull. And I was bored with writing it. A whole week spent on it and the best bit was:
Of course now I have to track down every goddam National Trust property and make the most of my membership. The day trips start here.
Anyway the upshot was it was very pleasant. We, or rather I, did a lot of driving. Went to the cricket, pottered about in the Yorkshire Dales, went to Lincoln and ate Fish & Chips in Skegness. Did a few castles and a stately home, stayed in a beautiful stone village in Lincolnshire and walked the fields our ancestors did in Norfolk. Quite possibly walking right over them in the graveyards but those pesky 17th century headstones do disintegrate over time. We finished up supping pints in a pub on the Suffolk coast and bedding down under fluffy duvets in a delightful B&B before returning to London town. Along the way we had cream teas and pints. Pub meals and cooked breakfasts. All very traditional.
Last night, as I emerged from a hangover that had rendered me somewhat incapacitated - though not for food I ate my body weight through the course of the day - we had a powercut. It's amazing how quickly you realise there is nothing you can do in the dark and without electricity (though as I re-read that, I realise of course there is but we won't go there).
Instead I managed to do the dishes in the last dying embers of sunlight. I was trapped on the 12th floor gazing wistfully out to the East seeing everyone else's flickering lights. Eventually I ventured back inside, collected up all the candles I had, found the one lonely lighter in the flat and set them all alight. You can imagine it was barely a small imaginative leap for me to imagine myself in my parlour, embroidering by candlelight or reading from the latest periodical, perhaps doing a small silhouette of my companion. The sound of horse and carts outside my window.
The reality of course was me, lying half off the sofa trying to capture some of the low wattage generated by the candles, the Observer Food Monthly magazine and the sound of the fire engine outside the flat trying to rescue someone trapped in the lift when the power went off.
Still, it came back on for Silent Witness.
Indicators of the kind of holiday it was: I bought leather driving gloves (cream) and National Trust membership.
Number of National Trust properties we visited: One.Number of English Heritage properties we visited: Four.
Of course now I have to track down every goddam National Trust property and make the most of my membership. The day trips start here.
Anyway the upshot was it was very pleasant. We, or rather I, did a lot of driving. Went to the cricket, pottered about in the Yorkshire Dales, went to Lincoln and ate Fish & Chips in Skegness. Did a few castles and a stately home, stayed in a beautiful stone village in Lincolnshire and walked the fields our ancestors did in Norfolk. Quite possibly walking right over them in the graveyards but those pesky 17th century headstones do disintegrate over time. We finished up supping pints in a pub on the Suffolk coast and bedding down under fluffy duvets in a delightful B&B before returning to London town. Along the way we had cream teas and pints. Pub meals and cooked breakfasts. All very traditional.
Last night, as I emerged from a hangover that had rendered me somewhat incapacitated - though not for food I ate my body weight through the course of the day - we had a powercut. It's amazing how quickly you realise there is nothing you can do in the dark and without electricity (though as I re-read that, I realise of course there is but we won't go there).
Instead I managed to do the dishes in the last dying embers of sunlight. I was trapped on the 12th floor gazing wistfully out to the East seeing everyone else's flickering lights. Eventually I ventured back inside, collected up all the candles I had, found the one lonely lighter in the flat and set them all alight. You can imagine it was barely a small imaginative leap for me to imagine myself in my parlour, embroidering by candlelight or reading from the latest periodical, perhaps doing a small silhouette of my companion. The sound of horse and carts outside my window.
The reality of course was me, lying half off the sofa trying to capture some of the low wattage generated by the candles, the Observer Food Monthly magazine and the sound of the fire engine outside the flat trying to rescue someone trapped in the lift when the power went off.
Still, it came back on for Silent Witness.
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