A small white envelope drops through our letterbox. It is heralded by the usual screeching of brakes as the postman - leap-frogging the bottom of our drive and sending a shower of gravel, when he returns to earth again, deep into the tramlines of the tennis court – narrowly misses sending Our Dog into the great RSPCA centrally heated funeral condominium in the sky.
Bloggiana and I are huddled in what we optimistically refer to as our sitting room. The ivy growing through the window and over the back of the television stares at us obliquely, reminding us of jobs we have yet to get round to. Ice formed overnight on the inside of the glass lies in a small accusatory puddle next to the ivy. The birds at the nut feeder outside peer at us darkly, nutless, accusing, their feathers fluffed up in birdie indignation at the moronic focus group that managed to come up with the term global warming.
Sluggishly something within Bloggiana stirs and she decides to go and see what the postman has brought today. Bloggiana takes her time. Her slippers shuffle across the flagstones in a susurrating slither. When she bends over, she does so so slowly that we can almost hear her sinews creak. Then she rests the unopened envelope on the side of the Expensive Cooker while she nonchalantly lights a cigarette, tweaks a blackthorn branch out of Our Dog’s backside, curses the kettle which seems to be on a go-slow yet again.
But at last Bloggiana turns to the matter in hand. I watch as the innocent piece of paper comes out of the innocent small white envelope. I watch as Bloggiana’s mid-life eyes squint into life. Then I watch as paper drops from her hand. I watch as lit cigarette tumbles out of Bloggiana’s mouth, though somehow, through a trick of the dry weather, manages to stay stuck to her lips. And I watch as Bloggiana crumples palely to the mud-strewn floor.
Bloggiana! I exclaim solicitously. What is the matter? Deftly removing the burning cigarette from my friend’s lips, I bend down and gather up the crumpled piece of paper at her side. The word Invoice peeps out from the crumples, as do the name and address of Bloggiana’s divorce solicitors. All of a sudden I have a pretty good idea about what’s wrong. How much, Bloggiana? I gasp.
By now, the old girl has gone from deep red to dark blue. Hyper ventilation could be one way of describing the process she is undergoing. On the other hand, acute loss of the will to live could be another.
Bloggiana! Bloggiana! How much? Bloggiana’s voice is dim, a mere whisper. I think I hear her say a word ending with –illion. Then I think I hear her say something about the gross domestic product of a small African country. Then I’m fairly certain I hear the old girl gasp for Pinot Grigio. Finally, as I am on the way to the drawer where the corkscrews live, I am pretty sure I hear Bloggiana issue the worst utterance of all: cutbacks.
Hand shaking, barely able to find the centre of the PG cork, I glance over to make sure my commune-partner is still breathing. Her eyes are closed and there is definitely a large contusion somewhere in the region of her wallet-pocket. I finally unthuck the PGrigio and wave a tumbler-full under the old girl’s nostrils. She barely even flickers.
To be continued.
Bloggiana and I are huddled in what we optimistically refer to as our sitting room. The ivy growing through the window and over the back of the television stares at us obliquely, reminding us of jobs we have yet to get round to. Ice formed overnight on the inside of the glass lies in a small accusatory puddle next to the ivy. The birds at the nut feeder outside peer at us darkly, nutless, accusing, their feathers fluffed up in birdie indignation at the moronic focus group that managed to come up with the term global warming.
Sluggishly something within Bloggiana stirs and she decides to go and see what the postman has brought today. Bloggiana takes her time. Her slippers shuffle across the flagstones in a susurrating slither. When she bends over, she does so so slowly that we can almost hear her sinews creak. Then she rests the unopened envelope on the side of the Expensive Cooker while she nonchalantly lights a cigarette, tweaks a blackthorn branch out of Our Dog’s backside, curses the kettle which seems to be on a go-slow yet again.
But at last Bloggiana turns to the matter in hand. I watch as the innocent piece of paper comes out of the innocent small white envelope. I watch as Bloggiana’s mid-life eyes squint into life. Then I watch as paper drops from her hand. I watch as lit cigarette tumbles out of Bloggiana’s mouth, though somehow, through a trick of the dry weather, manages to stay stuck to her lips. And I watch as Bloggiana crumples palely to the mud-strewn floor.
Bloggiana! I exclaim solicitously. What is the matter? Deftly removing the burning cigarette from my friend’s lips, I bend down and gather up the crumpled piece of paper at her side. The word Invoice peeps out from the crumples, as do the name and address of Bloggiana’s divorce solicitors. All of a sudden I have a pretty good idea about what’s wrong. How much, Bloggiana? I gasp.
By now, the old girl has gone from deep red to dark blue. Hyper ventilation could be one way of describing the process she is undergoing. On the other hand, acute loss of the will to live could be another.
Bloggiana! Bloggiana! How much? Bloggiana’s voice is dim, a mere whisper. I think I hear her say a word ending with –illion. Then I think I hear her say something about the gross domestic product of a small African country. Then I’m fairly certain I hear the old girl gasp for Pinot Grigio. Finally, as I am on the way to the drawer where the corkscrews live, I am pretty sure I hear Bloggiana issue the worst utterance of all: cutbacks.
Hand shaking, barely able to find the centre of the PG cork, I glance over to make sure my commune-partner is still breathing. Her eyes are closed and there is definitely a large contusion somewhere in the region of her wallet-pocket. I finally unthuck the PGrigio and wave a tumbler-full under the old girl’s nostrils. She barely even flickers.
To be continued.
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