No Gang-plank Required...

You were wondering if my Dearest husband read my blog while we were away? No, you didn't give it a thought. How rude of me to presume.
Well, of course he didn't. He talked about it. Was curious to hear about my new readers from Russia (maybe Mrs Putin is a bunion sufferer?) and of readers from Singapore and China joining the faithful; by which, I mean the US, Canada, Ireland, Australia and France. He was encouraging. Slightly uneasy, perhaps, that I might have mentioned him. Me, slightly queasy at this point, even evasive. But do you remember the words of the old Beatles song? For two and a half weeks, day and night (because I talk in my sleep) I, like Penny Lane, was  in his ears and in his eyes... So frankly, no need at all, to fill the remaining headspace with my written ramblings. I was quite happy with that.

So although we elected to go on a cruise, we do not go in search of new friends. We actively seek our own company, unadulterated by casual friendship. We dine alone each night and are happy to do so.
However, the umbilical cord of the office tugged more than once, requiring my husband's attention, so I was left unattended, so to speak. Dangerous. I have a cheerful open face that is very approachable. I was soon in conversation with a very pleasant like-minded lady. As an as an American, she was unburdened by the social reserve that we Brits tend to wear like flak jackets and as I am  someone who never has a problem chatting with strangers, we were exchanging views by the time Dearest emerged from his phone call.

We joined Jane and Allan on our last night on the boat, finally breaking with tradition, and so enjoyed ourselves that we met them a couple of days later in Lisbon for lunch.
The Office is always the third party on any holiday we go on. It has ever been thus. However, for once I am grateful that a timely intervention enabled us to break out of our routine.

Trains and Boats, But No Planes...

Well, hello and welcome back. I am as pleased to see you here as, I hope, you are to see me.

Years ago, it used to be one of my great dreads (yes, a sheltered life) that someone would brandish their holiday photos. How many oohs and aahs can anyone produce with a degree of authenticity before the eyes glaze with boredom and the rictus grin fails to convince? Now, we have the i-phone slide show, that is, if Face Book has not already ensnared you in its tendrils and broadcast every detail.

Nobody gives two hoots about your holiday. Nobody notices your suntan if you have been away during the only heatwave that the UK can remember for years.... They don't want to see your photographs where you diced with death to get a truly unique photo of a Lisbon tram and the sea behind. They don't want to hear about your white knuckle ride with crazy Portuguese taxi driver as he drove on two wheels, in a death-rattling Dacia Duster to get you to the station with minutes to spare. Or when the sound of a gunshot in Montparnasse station, Paris, redirected the crowd ahead, all getting off the overnight train, towards you in the opposite direction, with a thunderous volley of trolleys... Because it wasn't a disaster. Thankfully, as it turned out, no explanation, but more importantly, no bodies.

Except mine. It's considerably larger than when I left home. As we left the boat after a wonderful time cruising the Mediterranean, I asked Dearest to take my photograph on the quay with the boat in the background.
I may look the size of a house, but at least it's much smaller than the size of the ship behind me.
It's all about keeping a sense of proportion, really.
I suspect I've eaten mine.

A post card  by Antonio Pedro Ferreira of the extremely beautiful city of Lisbon.

You go home and pack your panties...

I'll go home and pack my scanties and away we'll go ... Hopping on the train, hopping on the train to Buffalo..
I find it strange that I have taken to launching into songs from my very early youth. I blame Crackerjack where every other line in the dialogue was a cue for a song.
Well, folks, Buffalo is not our destination tomorrow, but we are hopping on the train with suitcases of granny pants which can scarcely be described as scanty.
The annual holiday always leaves me in a bit of a spin. I have confessed before to being a reluctant traveller. I mull over how many clothes to take, mainly because of the near herniation of Dearest as he lugged our stuffed cases on and off continental trains on previous occasions. I  broached the subject of how many pairs of pants (as in undergarments) I should take, with a close friend.  Mine are really heavy. They take up a substantial wodge of space in the case. Maybe I could get away with half a dozen, say, for a two week vacation?
"Oh," said my friend, barely disguising her disdain, "You'd be just like my mother hanging her smalls over the bath, ruining a perfectly lovely bathroom.."  I felt as though I'd been slapped in the kipper by a wet pair of knickers. It gave me pause for thought, I can tell you.

So now bags are packed, but not closed. Tickets, passports and vitals lie on the dining room table to avoid having to check them all again in the very early morning. The house is as shipshape as I can make it, in readiness for friends and family who are going to take advantage of our absence. The plumber is turning off the mains tomorrow as we have a leak (it grieves me beyond, and our plumber, beyonder) in our beautiful new bathroom. So the house will be hubbling and less of the bubbling, hopefully, in our absence.

So this may be the last post in a wee while, until I return at the end of August. I would like to think that new friends will be patient and think to visit again in a few weeks time. I have threatened to make Dearest read this Blog on holiday, but the closer we get, the colder my feet. It could be a gang plank for one of us.
I'd better pack water wings. Tally ho!

Foot Note 4

I feel duty bound to to make footwear references to justify the nominal identity of this blog which rarely, these days, if at all, makes reference to any bunion, corn or hammer toe. Actually, talking of hammer toes, I think I've got one. I believe it's that which is throwing my newly straightened toe joint out of kilter. I have to make an appointment with my surgeon when I get back from holiday. In the meantime, I have bought some new shoes on the recommendation of two friends who are very satisfied customers.
My Skechers shoes arrived today. They look like the plimsoles I wore when I was a tiddler. (I have never been a tiddler, but I liked writing that.) They are as light as a feather, and supremely comfortable straight away. They also contain Memory Foam.  I haven't been this excited since I pulled a fast one on the Bin men. (Re: A Woman Scorned) I will let you know how I get on with them.

Sexy or what?

This is a very dull entry to all those who are totally bored with footling stuff. So here is a foodie reference. A friend brought round some tortas today. I have never experienced these before, but they are scrumdiddlyumptious. I've looked on Amazon and was a bit disturbed to see that you can buy them new, or used.

Does this mean they contain fewer calories if someone has taken a bite out of them?

Still-Life ... but not for long ...

Cannae Floss?

Well, do you? Did you? Are you going to carry on, in the face of the latest scientific research that suggests that flossing does not remove plaque?

Of course, it doesn't remove plaque. Plaque requires a hand grenade of Viakal to remove it, or the Periodontist's chiselling bit to chip it off.  That waxed cotton merely glides up and down the surface of your plaque-encrusted molars. But floss is bloody good at removing the large shin of beef that gets wedged between the gnashers every time you have a roast dinner, or sending a smackerel of streaky bacon sky high before landing in the dog, every time you have the Great British Breakfast.

I'm off to the dentist tomorrow, smug in the knowledge that there will be no tsking about the lack of flossing.
But it doesn't pay to be too smart with a chap who has a drill in his hand.

Hopefully, the dentist will not be holding one of mine tomorrow...

Do not Go Genitalia into that Good Night..

Well, it will come as no surprise to hear that Mr and Mrs GBB were not sitting with their fish finger supper on their laps watching Naked Attraction, Channel 4s new dating show, last Monday.
Blind Date without clothes on. The late lamented Cilla Black is probably rotating in her grave. And only 60 phone calls of complaint! What has happened to the critical faculties of the viewing public?
What is going on? It surely can't be climate change, because that brief spell of warm weather can hardly be called record-breaking. But there is certainly something in the air. I am not sure exactly what it is, but I'm bothered.

Seemingly, naturism is on the up and up. And there was I, thinking that it was confined to a number of beaches abroad with the odd privates only beach in this country. Frankly, I've always had problems with the word Naturalist and Naturist so I have always had to think carefully before getting out my binoculars when walking along a coastal path. But I must stop sniggering, because now Naturism is finding its way into mainstream art. Why do thousands of people in Hull cover themselves in blue dye for artist, Spencer Tunick recently? If you're one of thousands, then I agree you have a certain amount of anonymity. But what about those at the front? (Slightly hysterical concern, here.)

And there was a Party in the Stark in Orpington, Kent this weekend. Well, I 'm glad no-one invited me. Next I hear about a vegan restaurant where the term, raw vegetables takes on a very different hue. Patrons served by scantily dressed waiters, with 99% of those customers attending, in the buff! I am reading this with jaw dropping and wondering where this is all leading to. It gets worse. This was a pop-up restaurant. I know, I know... There are pop-ups all over the place these days.

I recall one of my first jobs with the BBC when I was a trailing Assistant Floor Manager on a show called True Patriot. It starred Michael York as the Lutheran pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer who was executed for treason during the Second World War. He walked naked to his execution.
There I was, two days on the job, and standing opposite one of the big stars of the time, and he was stark naked. Takes some courage, I thought, but then he's an actor, he probably doesn't give a monkeys.
Not so. This rich deep voice interrupted the take with, "Darling, you're right in my eye-line. Could you possibly stand somewhere else?"
Puce, I scuttled off behind the nearest shrub. Later, he came over and apologised and said he had felt utterly self-conscious. It was very gallant of him.
But in  1977 we both recognised that strutting your stuff, as naked as the day you were born, on a chilly autumn day in Uxbridge was not a natural thing at all.

A fully-clad Michael York

While Father Papered the Parlour ...

I am sure I must have had pre-conceived ideas about being a grandmother. I believe the primary one was that I didn't become one too early. If you get my drift.
Our grand daughter is now eleven and our grandson, aged six. We have just spent a very lovely weekend with them here at home. The highlight was of course, Aladdin. Who could equal that? However, their company in a sequin-free domestic setting, provided highlights of a different kind.

It was six weeks since they had last visited, abstaining while the house was in turmoil (or was that simply their Grandfather?) and they were impressed and delighted by the changes that had been wrought in the downstairs bathroom and our bedroom.

In a tour of the newly refurbished room upstairs, I showed my granddaughter some of the new items of clothing I'd bought for the holiday. As a devoted fan of Zoella the Vlogger, she has a keen interest in fashion. Seemingly, an hour later her grandfather gave her the same tour.

At tea-time we were sitting at the dining room table together, eating, when she casually announced that she had shown Grandpa all the lovely clothes I'd bought... Now, I am a modern emancipated woman but she saw the look on my face.
"Oh no! I've broken the code!" she cried. We all laughed. Though I knew what she meant, I asked her to explain.
"Oh, it's the Hide-the-Bags routine when we hear Daddy arriving home from work!"
Golly. Where did the little girl who likes dolls, disappear to?

Our grandson is keen on finding out how everything works. From the  the toilet roll holder mechanism (may he never lose that talent for replacing the toilet roll) to unscrewing the tiny screws on his Furbie. He came across my Clover pompom-making device. After using it in various configurations to make a Robot or Transformer, he asked for some wool. I duly found him a ball left over from my own semi-successful attempts to make pompoms a while back. We were talking and letting him get on with it. Which is not really what good Grandmas should do..  I looked down five minutes later at his finger which was by now cocooned in yellow wool.
"Why is the top of my finger going purple, Grandma?" he asked, in the spirit of enquiry.

You Tube provided the course of instruction necessary to make a pompom proper, and sure enough, this little lad produced his first. He couldn't wait to take it home to show Ted the dog.
Ted the Shred.