Sonday, snacks and swelling

We didn’t see Ted’s son on telly at the darts, but we did have a lot of fun looking out for him. The ‘arrows’ was of a high standard, Ted’s observational banter was as good as ever, and we even saw someone apparently coming out to his parents as the sign he held up from the crowd said “Mum.. Dad.. I’m gay!“ Even if it was one of his mates jokingly holding the sign up above his head, it was bloody funny to hear the commentator stumble and bumble and pretend he hadn’t seen it after it was broadcast live on national television. I imagine there’s a cameraman or director somewhere fighting to save their job at the moment.

Beryl brought out a ‘leftover platter’ for tea. She said she had ‘a few bits that needed finishing up’ after her many days of catering over Christmas and New Year. Those ‘few bits’ seemed to include at least half a herd of cattle in one form or another, and enough brandy-laced mince pies to put a rugby team over the drink-drive limit for a fortnight. She doesn’t hold back when she adds ‘a wee dram’ to a mince pie. It’s like eating a brewery wrapped in pastry.

Philippa twisted her ankle today, so she’s hobbling and grumpy. I’m alternating ice packs with a hot water bottle while telling her that maybe it’s time to cut back on sports now she’s getting old and fragile. She’s not reacting well. In all the time I’ve known Philippa, I think I’ve only heard her swear 12 times, and 11 of those were in the past half-hour….

RC 8-1-12