Before my "Get Up and Go" inexplicably got up and went, I was a busy, busy bee. Far too busy, Mr B used to grumble as I set off on the Pulse bus for yet another adventure. How are the mighty (or, should I say, the busy)
As regular readers will know, I spent a day in hospital this week, taking in blood like a Regular Vampire. I know quite a bit about vampires and werewolves and the like having been introduced to the
genre of vampire fiction by my older grandchildren. It is perfectly possible, I must concede, that this is no longer the big deal it once was. Vampires may well be so last year. Whatever, there is no doubting the restorative powers of a good dose of O plus
blood so God bless the blood donors, say I. The Eldest of the Darling Daughters and My Boy - both long-time blood donors with badges to prove it - are quietly happy that they are part of the band which helped out their "'Opeless' Mother".
My friend, the lovely Lucy, messages me to say that at least my sense of humour appears to be undamaged. Perhaps of all our senses, the sense of humour is the last to leave us. I am reminded of Spike Milligan who wanted the
inscription on his gravestone to read: "I told you I was ill." What style! (The Lovely Lucy, by the way, is not to be confused with the Lovely Linda who runs the Birdy Group, bringing me together with a dozen binocular-wielding bird-lovers like Scottish Christine,
Witty Jean and Tall Margaret. I am hoping that by now you are starting to recognise the rich cast of colourful characters who people the Daily Blog though I am prepared to accept that one day I should put together a glossary. I shall put it on my To Do list
for when I am allowed to be busy again.
Now that I am well on the Road to Recovery, Mr B is reminding me that the Christmas Deadline is fast approaching. For all of you who imagine that the last day for seasonal
purchases is Christmas Eve, I have to tell you that Mr B has his own personal deadline by which time he expects all our presents to be purchased and our Christmas cards written and ready for posting. This deadline - wait for it - is the end of November. Which
is just ten days away. I wondered if it might be possible to squeeze out an extra day but recourse to that popular rhyme which starts: "Thirty days hath September...." confirmed my worst fears. Ten days it is.
of the jobs I can do, which doesn't require too much energy, is to ask family members for lists of acceptable Christmas presents. Unfortunately most of them respond to say that it is only November 20th and they haven't even begun to think about Christmas so
can I just stop hassling them, just because I haven't anything better to do with my time at the moment? OK, they don't actually say that, all of them being far too kind and generally fond of me, but I am pretty good at reading between the lines.
The exceptions to the rule are the oldest of the Not So Very Little Welsh Boys. At their After School Club a few days ago, they spent a happy time with their classmates drafting lengthy Christmas Gift Lists of quite
magnificent proportions. However, in between the requests for I Pads and X Boxes and other Things Technological, doubtless influenced by their classmates, Young James had requested a puppy, while brother Sam had gone one better and asked for "a new baby brother."
Their father, My Boy, reading through both lists when he picked the lads up from school, told them in no uncertain terms that they had more chance of getting a puppy for Christmas than a new baby brother. At which, I
am told, both boys went dashing down the road calling out to all their friends that they were getting a puppy for Christmas... I have no idea how (or if) My Boy wriggled out of that one.
Now if I wanted to be a really, really popular grandmother, I know just what I should buy them for Christmas. My Boy and the Darling Daughter in Law would, in all probability, never talk to me again.
I am sorry, Sam and James, but that really would be a Price Too High to Pay.