The Milk Saga continued

So I emailed the company. This is part of their answer:

" ... we noticed that no delivery instructions have been provided for the driver to follow. As a result, there is currently no specific place where your milk is being delivered."

The company was taken over recently. The old owners didn't need telling where to put the delivery.

I could easily turn into a grumpy old woman.

* * * * *

It's the 'paint along with Jo' art session this coming Saturday. We're up to the limit we set of thirty attendees, assuming they all turn up, which is brilliant. It will raise a good total for Zac's.

However several people named Sarah have booked. I'm hoping they're all different people and not someone who got confused and booked several times. As I got confused when I went to the shop just now and took my peg bag with me.

Doorstep delivery?

I saw this on Twitter.

Wales beat Italy

Who beat Scotland

Who beat France

Who beat Ireland

Who beat England.

Therefore Wales must be champions.

Sounds about right to me. We might be bottom of the table but in our hearts we're the champions. 

* * * * *

We have milk delivered to our door in glass bottles. We've always done it that way.

We are currently considering/arguing about whether to give up. Husband grumbles because it's far more expensive than milk in the supermarket but I like the convenience, and the fact that bottles are recycled. Normally the only problems we've had have been birds pecking the tops. That was resolved by leaving a tile out for the milkman to put on top.

But this milkman is driving us closer to giving up. 

The last few deliveries he's left at the top of the steps. Not so convenient but we didn't complain. 

This morning he left the milk outside the front gate. We also have one full and one being-filled crates outside our door. 

Can you see those little white things outside the gate? (This is from our bedroom window.)

I've written to complain. And threatened to cancel. 

We won!

31-17! 31-17! 31-17!

Wales has not won a Six Nations game since March 2023; that's 15 games and 1,099 days. And what a way to do it. At half-time they were leading 21-0 and no-one was quite believing what they were seeing. The second half was a little more stressful as Italy battled back into the game, but, oh my, what a game.

I'm surprised I'm not hoarse today. 

GrandSon3 and I both had dragons on our faces. GrandSon1 was too cool for that but not too cool for a sheep hat. I was tempted to buy a dragon hat but when I tried one on I realised it looked like a giant red willy hanging from the front.

We had a fab time. I'm so glad we decided to go. The atmosphere in the stadium was fantastic.

A Big Day

I have had a rotary clothes dryer for as long as I have been married but it's only recently that I realised I could turn it around to hang clothes on. Up till now I've been walking around it. Doing its job for it I suppose. It's still a struggle to remember.

* * * * *

I had a message from someone yesterday saying I brought a ray of sunshine into the church with my quirky sense of humour.

I told Husband. He said, "She means weird."

* * * * *

I have two things to do this morning: learn the national anthem and write a prayer for Mothering Sunday.

I'm going to the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff to watch Wales play Italy this afternoon! With Elder Sons and GrandSons1 and 3. It was a last minute decision. The Welsh team has come to so close to victory on the last couple of occasions, they've played bravely in spite of all the criticism and off-field hoo-ha about getting rid of a team, and the atmosphere was amazing last time they played in Cardiff. And there is a tiny possibility they could win today. I'm not holding my breath on that point but it will be good to be there.

I have learned the anthem in the past but then I don't use it for a year and forget it again, and I want to be able to sing my socks off today. (Out of tune of course.)

In 2013 Husband and I went to Rome and watched the match there.

I swapped hats with an Italian supporter at the end.

The pain in the middle of the night

Yay! The roofers have finished and the scaffolding has gone from the front. The rest of it is still there but at least we don't have that huge tower in front of our bedroom window any more.

I had a terrible pain in my chest in the middle of the night and was wondering how long I should wait before waking Husband and telling him I'm having a heart attack. Then it went away. So it was probably the half a doughnut I ate in Zac's.

A lovely walk this morning with Daughter and Louie, with a little bit of gardening this afternoon. In between I researched Mothering Sunday for this week's church newsletter. Did you know Mothering Sunday was less to do with mothers and more to do with the church? 

From the 16th century, the 4th Sunday in Lent was designated as Mothering or Refreshment Sunday. The idea was that on that day you returned to your 'mother' church' i.e. the one in which you were baptised or your local church or nearest cathedral. The strict fasting rules of Lent were relaxed for that day and you were allowed to eat slightly richer food.

It was also the day that domestic servants were allowed to go home and visit their families - the only day of the year they had off apparently.

Mother's Day in America is a completely different thing and happens on the 2nd Sunday of May.

(Oh, I just found a spot on my chin.) (Probably that doughnut again.)

The camellia bush in our garden is looking absolutely gorgeous.

Tsundoku

I grumble about being busy but free days also are no good for me.

I waffle around, wasting time, dithering, wondering what to do. I look at the study and think I could tidy it. Next minute I am standing in the middle of the study, head in hands, saying, no it's too much. I don't know where to begin.

So I procrastinate and come and blog.

No! I can make a start with my desk. So I clear some rubbish and move some books.

But my book shelves are too full. "Get rid of some books!" I hear Husband's voice in my head. And, yes, it's reasonable: there are books on the shelves I read long ago and I won't read them again but . . . can I do this?

There a small box full of books to go. You can see by the dust and discolouration on the tops how long they've been untouched. I did, however, find quite a lot of books I've not read so they can't go. Some I might never read; some I bought because they were written by someone I was on a writing course with or something; some I bought on a whim; others with good intentions that I never quite found time for; books I've inherited and keep because I think I should; yet more still that are old but I've kept in case one day I want to read a classic. So many good arguments and not enough time to read everything. 

Not to mention the dvds and even videotapes that we don't have a player for.

Oh this is too much. I'm going to sit down and continue my pilgrimage to find grace.

My grey Christianity

The title of the sermon in church this morning was Good Sex, Bad Sex, (about the passage on adultery in the sermon on the mount) and the speaker began with a joke. 

A teacher asked the local vicar to speak to a class of schoolgirls about sex. He agreed but, for some reason, didn't want to tell his wife so he told her he was talking about sailing.

He did the talk and it went down very well. The teacher bumped into the vicar's wife a few days later and told her how very good her husband's talk had been.

"That's a surprise," said the wife. "He's only done it twice. The first time he was sick and the second time his hat blew off."

That was the last light-hearted moment in the sermon. The speaker's view was very straight down the line with no grey areas. My Christianity is full of grey areas, I don't knows, and I don't understands. I was going to say it must be nice to have it all so clearly set out in your head but actually I'm not sure it's always meant to be straightforward. I mean, Jesus' message is simple. Love. Love God, your neighbour, yourself. But Jesus also liked to challenge his listeners. And just about the final thing he did was promise paradise to someone who hadn't even said he was sorry, let alone said the 'sinner's prayer' so beloved of evangelicals.

To see beyond the shell, to hear the unsaid, to love the unlovely.

Our lovely young minister is speaking next week on divorce. He is very anxious and has been preparing for it since before Christmas. He's more like me and less sure that things are black and white.

It wasn't all bad

I did make some very good cookies to take to the girls on the street. They went down well. One girl said they were better than Greggs, so, greater praise hath no woman.

Because I was out yesterday evening I had to avoid all social media this morning until I'd watched the replay of the Ireland Wales game that happened last night. Yes, Wales lost again but they keep improving. Ireland are in great form so I expected a huge score against us but it wasn't. (27-17)

I also forgot to say that on Wednesday I went with Daughter-in-law to Taliesin Theatre to watch Made in Dagenham. It's the musical of the film of the fight by women machinists in Ford factories in the 60s to get equal pay with men. And it was great. Full of energy, great music, and 60s clothes. 

* * * * *

I was looking for a book to show Captain Kirt. I couldn't find it but did find one about Knossos. This puzzled me because, as I said to Cap'n K, we haven't been to Knossos nor shown any interest in it as far as I could remember.

Glancing through the book this morning a bell rang. I searched my blog.

It seems we have been to Knossos . . .

A couple of old ruins in Knossos

It was in 2007 though so I can be forgiven my memory lapse. I think.