Yesterday was a blue and golden Autumn day, so I walked in the park while Rosy did ballet. There were swift parrots being, well, swift, topknot doves wittering and egrets (I think they were egrets - skinny, grey, long beaks, can't find my bird book) chuntering contentedly together in the long grass. It was a lovely, happy sunny walk, all by myself. A rare treat.
And then I went shopping. I know, I don't go shopping anymore but this was an expedition months in the planning. I have a twenty one year old ironing board, given to us for our wedding by a great aunt, or possibly a second cousin. It is wearing quite well, but the cover was last renewed about twelve years ago when my darling mother-in-law made a new one for me. She was a good country housewife, so everything she made was double and triple reinforced, but eventually even that gave up the ghost, and I was ironing on a cover with holes in it, which was very dispiriting. I briefly thought about making one - how hard could it be, right? But I am a sad sally when it comes to sewing. All the women in my life who could sew have died - my grannies, my mother-in-law. I feel I missed a great opportunity there, because any of them would have loved to have taught me, but it wasn't a skill I was remotely interested in aquiring then.
So I have to endure The Look when, as today, I popped into ballet to ask the gathered ballet mums another stupid question about how to do something extremely basic to make Rosy's latest ballet costume fit her. They are very kind and helpful, and haven't failed me yet, but when I ask yet another daft question they give patient little sighs, before answering in the sort of voice one normally reserves for explaining obvious concepts to six year olds.
So I decided against the world of pain that sewing involves for me, and found the perfect ironing board cover, then waited. I knew it would go on sale eventually, and yesterday was the day. I came home with my fifty-percent-off ironing board cover. The Man thinks I'm mad, but I enjoy my little games, and see retail price as a challenge to overcome...
Anyway, I spent the evening happily ironing on my new hole-free ironing board, while watching Peter Ustinov twirl his moustaches as Hercule Poirot in an old Agatha Christie adaptation. Priceless.
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