The chap who joins me at the bus stop is not prepared to just wait until the Pulse turns up. He gets his mobile phone out of his pocket and proceeds to text the number on a notice fixed to the bus stop pole which promises
to let him know when he can expect the next bus to arrive.
I tell him that he is the first person I have ever seen texting the bus-line, despite the fact that I spend a lot of time at bus stops. He shrugs,
thereby giving the impression that he does this kind of thing all the time. This would, indeed, be impressive except for the fact that he doesn't appear to be getting an answer. I tell him that, as I have been waiting eight minutes at the bus stop, I am expecting
the bus to roll up in roughly two minutes. Exactly two minutes later, the Pulse bus rounds the corner and heads towards us. Honestly, I think I could have a really exciting future as a Bus Predictor.
promise to be 100% accurate, however. Take today's journey home, for example. It took all of 40 minutes, twice as long as usual, on account of four way traffic signals at a particular roundabout. One of my fellow passengers told me she had spent twenty minutes
waiting at these traffic lights on her way into town. I decided to be thankful for small mercies.
At least aboard the bus I could keep dry; having spent a couple of hours wandering round town in a downpour,
I resembled the proverbial drowned rat. I should have had the sense to take my birthday umbrella with me, a present from my sister and her fella. It is a truly splendid umbrella, decorated with scenes of London Town - but with both hands full of shopping bags,
I wouldn't have had a hand free to hold it above my wet head.
I had a few special errands to run and, as a consequence, I have an apology to make to anyone who visited Wilko's in Worthing today in the hope
of picking up some bunting. Yes, my friends, I bought up every single packet on display. I felt a little guilty - but not a lot.
Next stop, Poundland - favourite shop of my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys
- where I snapped up lots of pots of bubbles ("complete with wands" according to the wrapping - how very useful. What would we do if they didn't come with wands?) and four large and somewhat spectacular garden windmills.
I finished my shopping at Waitrose for no other reason than I badly needed a latte before I caught my bus home and there's nothing I like better than a free coffee. Had I known I would have a full ten minutes to wait for the bus, I would have lingered
a little longer.
The Darling Daughters keep texting me telling me not to allow myself to get stressed in these days leading up to our Golden Wedding Day. I think I am doing just fine, mainly by setting myself
a few tasks to do each day in the run-up and, once they are done, that's it. Some tasks are more pleasurable than others but that's life, isn't it?
Mr B decides he will handle most of the cooking of tonight's
dinner, when we will be joined by his brother and sister in law. It's good to see him in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove, even though it does come at a cost - that being my apparent inability to be a competent sous-chef. He gives me the fiddly jobs to
do, like crushing the garlic. I will reek of the stuff all through dinner though Mr B, having no sense of smell, won't notice.
The Boeuf Bourguignon is in the oven and smells delicious. The Jersey
Royal potatoes and runner beans are cooking on the hob. Our lovely guests are due in about ten minutes time.
No more tasks for me today - just a meal, a glass (or two) of wine, good company, lots of chat.