Sweet nothings..

I could say I don't know what possessed me. But I know perfectly well.
On Saturday evening, I dived fully-clothed into a very large glass of Campari (light on the soda) pre- dinner at the very lovely Hambledon Hall. It limbered up the tongue and relaxed the prefrontal cortex, the gatekeeper of common sense and restraint.
I confessed.  I told Dearest that I had written 70 entries on my Blog.
He was bemused. Bewildered. How could this have been happening for all this time under his very fine nose and eagle eye?
I hung my head. It was because I was retired.. Time hung heavy and it was so hard to get his attention as he was so immersed in work. I had needed some excitement, some sense of purpose, to feel valued.
Disregard the above. What he actually said was, "Blimey, your foot's better now. Surely there's not much more to say?"
There was a pause. Then he said, "You're not mentioning me are you?"
Now, why should he of all people, say that?
It was because, in my fury on Easter Sunday when preparing for whole family lunch I discovered Dearest had sloped back to bed with his i-pad, and I exploded with, "Thank God, I've got a blog." (Bet that shocked you.. Don't mess with me, I can hurl some really good abuse.)
But I smiled sweetly at him and said, "Now why on earth do you think I talk about you?"