I am tidying up in the smallest bedroom when I come across a sweet surprise.
It sounds as if I have come over all industrious,
but the truth is somewhat less praise-worthy. Tomorrow I am heading off to the home of my Little Sister and her fella for what I like to call a “well-earned break.” I’m not sure if this has been well-earned by me or by Mr B - or perhaps a
bit of both. The other day, I cut out of a magazine the following quote: “Before I was married I had no idea that I was always right.” Inevitably we both believe this applies to us…
While I am away, Mr B will be in the tender loving care of the Always Reliable Rosalie - which is why I am busily tidying up. However much I tell myself that I am being ridiculous - Rosalie being just about the least judgmental
person you could meet - there is still something about someone else being in charge of your home (not to mention one of your Most Precious People.) I feel I must check the fridge in case there are any nasty, out-of-date yoghurts lurking within; I must do something
about the piles of books, papers and leaflets for items which I must, once upon a time, have thought I might want to buy but didn’t; I must empty the waste bin under the sink. You get the idea, I am sure. This despite knowing that I will return on Monday
to a house sparkling under Rosalie’s benign influence. The kitchen will be pristine, she will have stripped her bed and washed the sheets, and every one of Mr B’s handkerchiefs will have been beautifully folded after washing. In short, she will
be an Example to Me.
Which is why I was tidying up the small bedroom, a Sight for Sore Eyes. I had tipped out over the floor all the wool kept in one storage box
looking for the exact colour I need for my latest knitting project, while the single bed was littered with card-making materials - old greetings cards, stickers, photographs, photo paper for the printer and scraps of ribbon.
To be fair, clearing up didn’t take too long, once I’d set my mind to it. As a final flourish, I decided to plump up the pillows on the bed - which is when I discovered my sweet surprise.
I imagine you may have forgotten all about this in the midst of all my ramblings? There, nestling under the pillow, was a packet of Hartley’s orange jelly (fat free with no added preservatives). It had been opened by Person or Persons Unknown and a single
cube of jelly had been nibbled. No more, just one. Presumably whoever had secreted it there found it to be not as delicious as imagined. Was it, I wondered, a relic of a Midnight Feast? Or what?
I can think of one or two possible culprits but I am not about to name them. Not only have they given me my best laugh of the day but the discovery has also reminded me that I, too, wasn’t above concealing food as a
young’un. My crime was far more heinous in terms of the potential for long-lasting consequences. I shall let you be the judge of this.
As a child, I hated
ham. To be strictly honest, I hated ham and everything that accompanied it on a plate. Salad was my least favourite meal and I can still remember sitting at the dining room table and telling myself that I would sit there forever before I allowed a morsel of
ham to pass through my stubborn lips. My poor parents must have been at their wits end with me. On this particular occasion, my dear mum had decided to make a stand, not knowing of course what rebellious thoughts were circling, mutinously, inside my head.
She did sound rather more determined than on previous occasions, which was somewhat worrying, especially as I had just started reading a new book and couldn’t wait
to get back to my preferred position behind the sofa where I imagined nobody would be able to find me. What to do? All of a sudden I noticed that my mother’s back was turned. In a trice I had picked the ham off my plate, opened the top of the piano and
slipped the ham down inside. My shame when my mother praised me for eating up the hated food was not enough, I fear, to persuade me to confess my Dire Deed.
worried for months about the consequences of my action, imagining the smell which might start to waft from my Dad’s much-prized piano - before eventually I forgot all about it. Nobody, as far as I know, found me out. I even started to like the taste
Almost as much as orange jelly…