To recommence in August.
Not original that - although I do wish that I had thought of it first. But the originator had a lot of baggage - it was Byron. We have had a few hot days, but now it is back to the showers. Actually I am not too displeased about that. Having had the experience - and education of living in countries where there is endemic water shortage, I would far prefer to have too much of it, rather than too little. Always provided that it is potable and falls from the sky, rather than being salt and driven in from the sea.
Not a lot has happened since the last entry, which was late. The jolly old cellulitis kicked in for a flare-up last Thursday, but now I know what are the symptoms, and have a stash of the recommended antibiotic to deal with it, I seem able to knock it on the head fairly efficiently. I just hope I am not speaking too soon. The trouble is that the recommended antibiotic aforesaid has connections with C-Diff, which something I definitely do no want.
Enough of all this. Mrs Grenyer has developed a wanderlust, and we are booked to go to Lille, Sicily, Germany and Derbyshire before November, and I have to fit in a trip to the Caribbean as well. Some of it will do wonders for the Air Miles, or whatever they are called, so there is a benefit for all.
Just finished on the allotment. Doing all right until the showers mentioned above interfered. Must have picked about 14 pounds of red currants, and the same amount of loganberries, despite the support wires being blown down, and the whole edifice held up with stick tape and acroprops. Also 10 pounds of black currants. The blackberries have come in, but we do not have many bushes. Yet. The idea is to convert the whole plot to soft fruit, thereby getting rid of the need for the heavy digging. The cunning bit is to put grass paths between the row, so there is less hoeing too, but it will still need the grass keeping down somehow - either strimmer or rotary mower. The latter would be quicker, but the machine would need to be taken there and back. Bidborough may not be one of the hotbeds of crime in the country, but a free rotary mower might be just too much.
Went to the Dramatic Society's annual party the other day, and was co-erced into doing a recital. My choice of work! Any of my readers remember the following? I am not sure what the rather elderly denizens of Bidborough thought about it, but they applauded politely.
It gave the family quite a start
When Angela became a tart,
But blood is blood, and race is race
And so to save the family face
They bought her just the sweetest beat
On the sunny side of Jermyn Street.
At first business was rather slow,
And as her savings got quite low
She had to call the family in
And ask just how she might begin
To learn the things that constitute
A really first-class prostitute.
The family made it all quite plain,
So back she went to try again.
Acting on their good advice
She greatly modified her price,
And gave to all who come her way---
Provided they could only pay.
And pay they did, nor did she fail
To introduce a sliding scale
Whereby what cost one man a heap
Another man could get quite cheap.
Knights and nabobs, lords and earls
All brought her gifts of gold and pearls
Just for one hour of practice crude ---
They went away with strength renewed.
At last she thought the time had come
When she could be more venturesome.
And so she bought a little flat
With welcome words upon the mat
And draught excluders round the door ---
All necessary to a whore
For as no doubt you may have guessed
It wasn’t often she was dressed.
And round the walls were pictures rude
Of saucy ladies in the nude.
All these were there displayed to fire
Her clients with a strong desire
To leap between the silken sheets
And start their acrobatic feats.
At last so great was Angie’s fame
That Scotland Yard joined in the game.
They sent a handsome copper round.
That nifty copper quickly found
Sufficient proof of Angie’s ways
To send her down for ninety days
Without the option of a fine.
And so he pinched her – dirty swine.
Now Angie said “It’s most unjust
But do your duty if you must”.
And murmured then, t’wixt sobs and sighs
“Before you go, do up your flies”.
And now she lies in Pentonville.
And though that copper she could kill,
The thought that makes her really sore
Is that some other dirty whore
Now walks the beat, the sweetest beat
On the sunny side of Jermyn Street.
