The Socially Inappropriate Sign Store

Jackie being importuned by an elf.

Last weekend, we went to a large craft fair with Nick and Jackie.

Support local makers – not the economy of China.

We saw everything from a crocheted toilet roll cover (washable) to exquisite silver jewellery.

But our favourite was the Socially Inappropriate Sign Stall (our choice of name, not theirs).

I’ve mentioned these  homely signs before in my blog – they say things like “Live, laugh, love”, or “My Kitchen, My Rules”, and are charming and humorous the FIRST time you see them.

At the craft show, there was a stall jam-packed with these sweet little sayings.  I was about to pass by, but a large sign caught me eye. 

“I love you even more than CHEESE.”

Who would ever hang that up on their wall?

And there were more. 
Gently I back-pedalled.

The stall was run by a couple. 

                He could cut wood into little rectangles and hearts.

                She could do cutesie handwriting.

Unfortunately, neither of them could produce a bon mot.

No wonder there was so much stock on display – nobody would ever buy these.

After perusal, my favourite was the stalkerish:

“I may not be the most important person in your life, but when you hear my name, I hope you smile and say ‘That’s my friend.’”

But Nick, who had also paid the stall close attention, had spotted an even better one:

“Sometimes I laugh so much that the tears run down my legs.”

Perhaps I should suggest to the stall-holders that they go crochet some toilet roll covers instead.

Proper Job

There was a point where Nigel and I very nearly relocated our family back to my homeland of Cornwall, but in the end fears for job prospects (both ours and our children’s) stopped us.

However, last Sunday night, I had a revelation.  The perfect job had been there waiting for me all along, but I had been too blind to see.

We were watching Poldark when an angry mob burst onto the scene and threatened to lynch Warleggan.  As they shook their fists and roared defiantly in a West Country manner, I rose slightly in my chair.

“I want to do that.  At last, my vocation!”

I should have been an extra - ‘Angry mob, number 14'.

It should have been me! With a kerchief wrapped round my head, brandishing a pitchfork in one hand and a pasty in the other, shouting “Aaaaarh.”

It looked like an occupation which would not only be rewarding from the first day, but would also offer career progression.  Eventually I could hope to become “Angry Mob, number 1” – the one that gets to shout “That’s right, Cap’n Poldark – You tell un!”

And then possibilities for international travel.  I could one day graduate to be one of the mob of angry villagers that besieges the Vampire’s Castle in Transylvania.

Perhaps it’s not too late for me after all.  Where do I find the application form?

Something cheery to take your mind off the fact that our whole world is crumbling...

Too miserable to blog about the US fiasco.
This almost cheered me up.  Almost.
John Lewis Christmas ad 2016

Can you hack a hike?

I should have been thrilled at the thought of a bracing Autumn weekend in the Peak District with the Thompsons.  However, my foot has been hurting – a symptom of advanced Middle-Age.

It’s meant we haven’t done any proper walking for a long time.  Such a long time that I had forgotten the importance of sturdy boots and not wearing denim jeans.   

When we set off on Saturday, the air was as full of moisture as it could be without actually committing to raining.  Our route was through fields of deep, saturated grass studded with sheep poo and garnished with country pancakes. 

My old boots not only leaked, but didn’t have much grip left. 

In my mind’s eye was a vivid picture of me skidding and landing on my bum in animal dung. 

I whinged quite a lot.  Nigel and David and Carolyn lured me onwards with a flask of tea and encouraging words.  They pretended that it could be any of us who slipped over in the poo.  I knew for a certainty that it would be me. 

But we were soon mounting a ridge.  We didn’t know which ridge, but some hikers coming the other way told us confidently where we were.  They had louder, posher voices than ours so we believed them.  Until we met them 15 minutes later shamefacedly retracing their steps.

By now, my jeans had wicked wetness up to my knees. 

Then there was a choice to make – I could continue with my low-level whining as we made our way round the base of splendid, craggy Comb hill, or we could choose to ascend it  and I could ramp up to high-level complaining.  We chose the latter course.   

Thanks to Nigel, David and Carolyn, I made it to the top, even with my dodgy equipment and poorly foot.  And I didn’t even slip over in the poo.

I’m surprised they managed to put up with all my beefing.  Perhaps they too have a middle-aged affliction – deafness.  And what looks like a warm and supportive friendship is, in fact, an inability to hear my protests.

Yep.  That must be it.