I travelled back home this morning, waving a tearful goodbye (well, I was tearful anyway) to the Youngest of the Darling Daughters who had braved the early morning traffic, bless her, to drive me to the station.
I had to change trains at Hilsea which, in terms of facilities offered, might just be marginally worse than Cosham (see my Sunday blog.) However, as I only had five minutes to
wait on the station platform I didn't have (i) the time to test out the facilities or (ii) the need to summon up any grim fortitude to sustain me. I did check out (from the comfort of the train) all the other stations along the line to Littlehampton
and decided the only one where I want to change trains in future is Havant where there is a cheery-looking Pumpkin Cafe on the platform. It's such a lovely plump name, isn't it, Pumpkin Cafe?
The smiley face of Mr B was the first thing I saw when I arrived at Littlehampton. He was really pleased to have me home - if only because now he has someone to blame when Things Go Wrong. Yesterday, apparently, he put his dinner in
the oven then fell asleep in front of the TV, awaking to find his lamb shank seriously overcooked. In my absence, he has had to concede it was All His Own Fault. This doesn't happen very often.
in recognition of the fact that I have seriously relaxed / completely neglected my retirement exercise regime over the last week and a half, I headed to the health club for a swim while Mr B was out bowling. There I completed my sixteen, slow but
stately lengths of the pool. Stately is a good word because when swimming I always hold my head high above the water - think Maggie Smith from Downton Abbey in a swimming pool and you will get the picture.
I did have one minor adventure while I was there. A new spin dryer has been installed, for wringing out wet swimsuits. I couldn't read the instructions, being as usual without my specs,
so I just had to trust my instincts, guess at how long to hold down the lid of the dryer and submit my poor cossie to its administrations. It survived intact, though no thanks to me.
though it is to be home, I am rather missing being with the Youngest of the Darling Daughters and my grandkids, Jack and Hazel. Especially as Hazel was making Chelsea Buns in Cookery this morning (I know this because I helped weigh out the
ingredients last night, though why anyone would trust me with a set of kitchen scales and a bag of strong white flour I really don't know.) I do love Chelsea buns. I feel absolutely sure they sell them in the Pumpkin Cafe on the platform at Havant
Incidentally, lots of Jack and Hazel's friends, for some reason, have started calling me Nanna Baldwin. This is despite the fact that I am not their grandmother and my name
isn't Baldwin, two facts which appear not to bother the youngsters two hoots. So I shall wear my new name like a badge of honour. There is something warm and friendly and comforting about it.
Like Chelsea Buns and the Pumpkin Cafe...