Everyone was just so pleased to see our conductor, the Redoubtable Muriel, at our Choir Lunch this afternoon.
Obviously we are always pleased to see her but today we were
especially pleased because last Friday on her way to our weekly Singing for Pleasure Choir session, our Venerable Conductor had an argument. With a Pole. Not, you understand, a person of Polish birth but, rather, an inanimate object into which she crashed
I wonder - and I imagine I am not the only member of the choir who has had the same thought - whether at the moment of impact she was busily composing one of the verses with which each week she challenges
our use of consonants or vowels. Blue skies, green grass, brown speckled pebbles come to mind. I suspect that the pole, meeting up with our Indomitable Conductor, came off the worse.
It has been a great relief
to us all to learn that our Muriel has emerged from her Pole Encounter relatively unscathed. The same cannot be said of her car but then a car, like a pole, is an inanimate object. All the same it was good to see the Redoubtable One turn up just in time for
dinner, looking remarkably unbowed.
Twenty-four of us met up at the local college for a lunch cooked and served up by catering students. With my Trusty Chariot still awaiting attention from the garage, I was
indebted to friends Roland and Shirley who gave me a lift to the college. How lucky I am with my friends! Earlier in the day lovely Ann picked me up and drove me to the quarterly meeting of our Questers group. It was Ann's first meeting and I think she was
glad to have company - but that takes nothing away from her generosity in going out of her way to collect me. I bought her a coffee to say thank you and gave her the choice of a chocolate digestive or shortbread. She chose shortbread. Just in case you are
My head was still swimming at lunchtime with all the information about possible future Questers visits. I tell Shirley how Mr B, knowing my propensity to volunteer, always urges me to sit on my
hands at Questers' meetings when the call goes out for someone to organise this visit or that. Shirley knows just what I mean; she and Roland have much the same conversation before our quarterly meetings. I am so pleased it isn't just me.
Lunch was delicious, thank you, and the company was excellent. Everyone asked after Mr B and told me they want to see him back at choir on Friday. Hopefully, if I manage to get him there, we won't sing any Scottish songs. As
far as Mr B is concerned there's nae luck aboot the hoose when we get started on good old Robbie Burns.
Back home I decided to tackle Gardengate. Like Watergate but of less international and more domestic
importance. While I was away, enjoying the delights of a weekend in the company of the (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys, someone with Vandal Tendencies unhinged our front gate and carried it off, depositing it in the front garden of number 27. Yesterday with
the help of a trolley and Mrs Number 27 - who goes by the name of Joyce - I managed to trundle the gate back to ours but it is far too heavy for me to lift back into position.
Enter Trumps. "No job is too
small!" trumpets their leaflet. We shall see tomorrow when I am expecting help to arrive between 9 and 10 a.m.
I'm just hoping that, like my dear friends Roland, Shirley and Ann, Trumps will come up, well,