Mr B is happy to have me home again. He doesn’t mind loaning me out on occasion to assorted Son and Daughters when they need me – but, as he likes to make clear, he is, has always been, and always should be,
my Main Concern.
After collecting me from the station (my train is only five minutes late) he takes me out to dinner so that we can sit over a meal that neither
of us has had to cook, with a bottle of Merlot, and compare notes on the last few days without each other. Mr B says he has read The Daily Blog while I was away so I don’t need to go over all that again. I explain that there is only so much I can write
in 700 words and there is much, much more I can report on – but then I realise that he has had nobody to talk to while I have been away so it’s only fair to let him chunter on.
Long time friends Terry and Maureen appear from behind a corner. They had spotted Mr B come in, weren’t initially sure it was him, then saw me and concluded it was, on the basis that we go together like Punch and Judy, or Sooty
and Sweep, or Iggle Piggle and Maka Paka (you can tell, can’t you, that I have been watching CBeebies with Young Morgan?) We invite them to join us (Terry and Maureen, not Iggle Piggle and his colourful friend) but they have already finished their Codfather
and Chips and are on their way home. Nevertheless they stop to chat until our own food arrives.
I reckon, since I retired from being a Working Gal, I indulge
in a great deal more chatter for chatter’s sake. It’s not that I am not as busy as I ever was (Mr B says he knows who the Duracell Bunny takes after) – but there is so much more time these days to sit round a table and just chat.
This morning, for example, it was our Singing for Pleasure choir session. We sang, among other things, Go Down Moses and our conductor, the Redoubtable Muriel, allowed us to sing this in three parts. She has been reluctant, in the past, to engage us
in three-part singing mostly, I fear, because she doubts that the Alto Section (of which, you remember, I am a member) is Up For It. I think we made a pretty good fist of it but then I am not the conductor. However our pianist, the Truly Rather Wonderful Morag
(she plays all the introductory music and the twiddly bits between the verses which somehow makes our singing sound SO much more professional) said we sounded pretty good. You may think this faint praise, but it was plenty good enough for me.
Incidentally, I have told you before about some of the Redoubtable Muriel’s more outlandish vocal exercises – today she excelled herself and introduced us to the following:
“The architectural quality of bare trees in winter
Is both remarkable and dramatic.”
Someone behind me, clearly recalling the songs Mr B and I have performed together at two successive Christmases, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered: “She should take a few lessons from you
on rhymes.” It seems Muriel had been much taken, driving to our session, with some Italian Alder trees already sporting spring-like catkins but still, well, architecturally dramatic against the winter sky. I do know what she means, having once
been introduced to the shapes of trees in winter by an arboriculturist friend of mine (he used to call me “Flower”. Nobody else has ever called me anything remotely floral before. He did, however, call everyone “Flower” so I cannot
count myself as in any way special.) It is, I think, enormously to the Redoubtable Muriel’s credit that she is thinking up vocal exercises for us while driving along, admiring the trees.
When we meet up in the community centre cafe afterwards, we chat about the architectural nature of trees in winter; the Convenors Meeting which I missed on account of being otherwise occupied last Saturday watching Jack and
Hazel in “Cats”; whether the U3A should be more of a campaigning organisation ensuring the voices of older people are heard; and whether there would be takers for a ukulele group.
See what I mean? Endless chatter. It makes the world go round, don’t you know?
Time for a chat?