Minor hysterics

It suddenly occurred to me that the show, Operation Mincemeat, was coming to the Grand Theatre sometime soon. I booked tickets for it after Husband's illness got in the way of a London trip to see it.

But it wasn't in my diary.

This was a little alarming.

I googled to see when it's on and it's the last week in September so at least we hadn't missed it. Then I searched through my emails to find a record of booking. Nada! Zilch! Nothing!

Husband recently read about box breathing where you breathe in for 4 (or was it 5?), hold it for 4, breathe out for 4, and hold it for 4. It's supposed to be good to calm you as you try to imagine breathing the sides of a box. Sadly I was past the stage when breathing would help.

"Where is it? I did book, didn't I? I must have done! I' absolutely sure I did! Then where is it? Why can't I find a record? Don't panic!"

I checked my blog and this is what I'd written back in June 2025:

Booked
Tickets that is not me. For Operation Mincemeat in Swansea Grand Theatre in September 2026! (Note for self - they have emailed me e-tickets, must remember this for when I panic and can't find them.) 

Which proves I did book but doesn't help on the finding the tickets email front. It also shows how well I know myself.

Well, I found them but they were in a strange Inbox folder that I never look at that seems to just house some emails. I've now printed out the tickets and will put them 'somewhere safe.'

I need a cup of tea after that.

* * * * *

In Italy they have three kittens and two chicks, the latter born - hatched? -  while we were there.

'Dave' the dad

Mum Helga and one kitten

It was GrandSon4's birthday the day before we arrived in France so he insisted on me making a cake for him when we got back to Italy. He is well into Harry Potter and wanted a book cake. Actually he wanted Hagrid or a phoenix but I managed to talk him down.

Cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, with an unfamiliar stove, and unfamiliar ingredients, especially when it has to be gluten-free for YS, isn't easy. The cake wasn't the best but it got eaten. The icing was meant to be red like the phoenix but it was coming out pink - red colouring always does! - so I turned it purple on the basis that purple is a magical colour. The only piping equipment I could buy had a wide hole so my writing is very thick and poor, and that's meant to be a feather at the bottom by the way.

The wicked have it made

Yesterday I was leading the service in church for the first time, meaning I did the welcome and introductions, the mc if you like.

Bit of a panic at first as they couldn't get the microphones to work but, thankfully, that was sorted in time and I didn't have to shout. Part of the job of leading is usually reading the psalm for the week. We're working through the book of psalms and we'd reached number 73. 

I don't know if you've heard about the men in black wearing balaclavas gathering at Dover recently to protest about immigration? Or the far-right's war on the RNLI (Royal National lifeboat Institution)? 

The anti-migration parties are calling the lifeboatmen traitors for saving lives at sea without first checking if they have a British passport. 

You may not know that the majority of our lifeboatmen and women are volunteers, who are willing to risk their own lives at any time of day or night, often in appalling sea conditions to rescue those in trouble. In 1947 the Mumbles Lifeboat was launched to answer a distress call and it never came back. All eight crew members died.

So when I read the psalm last week to prepare for Sunday I was struck by how apt the words are. (The R****m party received, over the weekend, £72 million from two crypto billionaires.)

This is an extract from it, from The Message translation:

. . . the wicked who have it made,
Who have nothing to worry about,
    not a care in the whole wide world.
Pretentious with arrogance,
    they wear the latest fashions in violence,
Pampered and overfed,
    decked out in silk bows of silliness.
They jeer, using words to kill;
    they bully their way with words.
They’re full of hot air,
    loudmouths disturbing the peace.
People actually listen to them—can you believe it?
    Like thirsty puppies, they lap up their words.

* * * * *

Not many flowers left in the garden now but I managed a little posy.

A question for you

I think I've mentioned that our writing group is producing an anthology to sell in aid of Ukraine. I am in the process of putting all the text together, I have a designer working on the cover, and all we need now is a title.

In the car yesterday, on my way to the library the 'hiraeth' came to me. I don't think I was thinking about the anthology in particular but probably about books in general. Hiraeth is a wonderful Welsh word that doesn't have a direct translation other than homesickness but it's much more than that. It's a deep-seated longing for a time or place, especially when that time or place no longer exists.

It felt very appropriate for a book to be sold in aid of country that will never be the same again. 

Browsing in the library later I flicked open the pages of a novel to the foreword, which gave the definition of hiraeth: a deep, bittersweet longing for a home, place, or time that is lost, unreachable, or never actually existed. That was a bit spooky!

Anyway, later that day I read the essay submitted by our Ukrainian writer and it's all bout the summers she spent on her grandparents' farm in the south of Ukraine. So the title Hiraeth felt very apt.

But then this morning I was talking to the designer and he asked it it was a good title if you had to keep explaining it. So I thought I'd ask you what you think.

I quite like the idea of having to explain it, to emphasise the changes that will have been wrought in Ukraine. Also most of the buyers will be Welsh and will have an inkling I believe. So, your thoughts, please.

* * * * *

Having come back from very hot temperatures to Welsh autumnal temperatures I am feeling the cold. I even put a vest on this morning!

Meanwhile back in the south of France. One day we went for a wander around the town of Frejus. It's become a very popular resort these days and has its upmarket marina and promenade area, as well as its historic and arts centre. 

French singer Johnny Hallyday

An olive tree about 1,000 years old.

Yarn-bombing!

Scots men skipping

I'm sure it shouldn't be every day that I say the words, "Now where was I when I took off my bra?"

But you know what it's like. Sometimes the pressure just gets too much and the bra has to go.

* * * * *

Some people doom scroll. I waste time by watching Grey's Anatomy clips, cute videos of fluffy puppies, and hunky Scots men in kilts skipping.

* * * * *

So back to the holiday.

We normally travel to Italy mid-week but this time we were meeting the family in the south of France for a Eurocamping week. This meant travelling on a Friday and Saturday. Never again. Usually the French peages (toll roads) are a delight to drive along; this time they were crowded with French people going on holiday! I mean, come on!

We spent our honeymoon near Frejus and returned there for our 40th anniversary trip so we were on familiar territory although Eurocamp has changed a lot. In those days it was all tents with communal shower and toilet blocks; these days it's chalets ranging from basic to luxurious all essentials included.

There were lots of pools with slides, which the children loved, and, indeed, they seemed to enjoy spending most of their time under water rather on top. And there was the sea, my place. Not like beaches on Gower on the whole but more little stony coves. The one big sandy beach at Frejus itself was very popular and we only went there once but it gave me time to spot the Beach Library! How civilised is that?

But we preferred the coves, difficult though it was to walk in the slippery stony sea, especially with children dragging you along!

The stones were fab though and I began collecting them with a view to making a picture. Then the grands starting helping and now I can make a huge masterpiece.

The stones had a glittery look and when I found one that had what looked like a sheet of silver on its surface I put it on the edge of my towel to keep until I moved it to my bag. Then we went for a swim.

On returning, Husband, for no apparent reason, picked up my towel and shook it. My scream of, "No! My stone!" came too late.

I might have become just a tiny bit irrational and obsessive at this point and spent most of the rest of our time on the beach picking up and discarding stones in my search for my 'precious'. It was such a lovely stone. I still mourn its loss. It would have been the focus of my picture. Oh, big sigh. 

That reminds me, I saw a post on Jabblog's about the Ig Nobel Prize, where someone got a prize for researching what causes people to sigh. I do that a lot and would be interested to find out why.

Later

Went to the library to return books and pick up a reservation. Went in determined not to choose any others as I have plenty to read but came out with three, and photos of lots of books to put on my Want-to-read list.

I do online suduko and my game has recently started flashing up encouraging words, like 'Smooth move' and 'You've cracked it!' Now I feel I'm letting it down if I make a mistake.

A lovely walk with Daughter and Louie yesterday to Pobbles and back the long way to avoid the cows on the golf course, road, and pavement. A grey but mild day.

The 'veins' of a dried out cactus on the cliff near the cove in France.

Husband does magic

Unsurprisingly I didn't manage to read as many books as I took. One I finished on holiday had an excellent opening paragraph:

First off, I'm not a violent man. Quite the opposite. For example, I've never once in my life gotten into a fight. And I didn't even kill anyone until I was forty-two.

The book might not be to your taste but you've got to admit that's a cracking opening. It's called Murder Mindfully and I notice there's a television adaptation on Netflix at the moment. It's quite gruesome but also funny and strangely logical. 

I also read Butter, an international best-seller according to the cover. Another strange one where a journalist wants to interview a woman accused of luring three men to her and then killing them. The accused is an unpleasant woman with ideas I don't agree with but I couldn't help wanting her to be proved innocent. She could be thoroughly nasty but there was also a naivety and neediness about her.

There's a lot of food talk in it. The journalist mentions on several occasions buying onigiri for her dinner so when I spotted it in a Lidl in France in a tiny Japanese section I couldn't resist buying it. I assumed from her description it was a sort of savoury ready meal. The one I bought was raspberry and white chocolate and not horrid but not very nice. Maybe a fishy one would be better.

* * * * *

This morning I sorted the washing and put it in the machine only for the machine to appear dead. I shouted up to Husband to tell him it wasn't working. He came down the stairs a few minutes later saying, "It's fixed now."

And it was.

* * * * *

A letter arrived while I was on holiday telling me an appointment had been made for me to have the RSV vaccination. Trouble was, it was for last Saturday.

I've made a new appointment. I've only just become eligible to get this jab and I'll take anything that's going and that promises to help me stay healthy. Or at least not as ill as I could be.

The good news

I didn't lose my bra when on holiday. 

It turns out I hadn't packed it, which is a relief as I had wondered if, in a moment of forgotten flippancy, I'd thrown my bra to the wind and sea.

Anyway I'm back so prepare for lots of holiday photos.

Yesterday I consumed:
a pain au sucre and orange juice (France);
a cinnamon bun, and mango and passion fruit cooler (England);
the best part of a bag of crisps and when I say bag I mean sharing size of course (car);
and a bowl of crunchy nut flakes (Wales).

Today our healthy eating regime starts!

Unfortunately I said last week that when we got home we'd have three days 'off', and would eat ready meals. Holidaying with grandchildren is the best but also exhausting; we need a holiday to recover. But as Husband pointed out, ready meals will be okay if we only eat those, and not add the extras we're inclined to add on the grounds that ready-meals aren't big enough for two people. (They are of course.)

Pain au sucre

Must stop

Have downloaded three - um, what do you call them? - read aloud books? To keep me happy on the drive. Plus two books for kindle. That's as well as four paperbacks and two library books. I'm not going to get through all of those obviously but I like to be prepared, hence the knicker equation. (Number of knickers to pack = number of days x 2 + 3 spare.*)

* * * * *

Today is GCSE result day and GrandDaughter1 has done well and got the grades she needs to go to sixth form college. She had a few difficult years in senior school so I am especially pleased for her. 

Apparently it's now a thing for the year below to go in and get their grades as well, as they count towards the final result of next year's GCSE exams. So GrandSon1 also got good grades and is well on course for next year.

* * * * *

There's only been a tiny bit of rainfall but already the back lawn looks greener and I swear the grass has grown.

* * * * * 

Husband has been very productive these last couple of days. He's made twelve jars of tomato chutney, four jars of fig chutney, and four jars of fig jam, all from home-grown tomatoes and figs.

*Maybe a slight exaggeration. (And I can never remember if it's one 'r' and two 'g's or vice versa.)

Having failed to marry

"Having failed to marry Stephen . . ."

That was the start of the precis of the episode that was on the radio and it puzzled me. It's a weird thing to say I think. How exactly did she fail? 

Was she a wicked temptress who had tried to ensnare Stephen only to have him find out and refuse to marry her?

The story is A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy, and I've just googled some synopses, which suggest the reason she didn't marry Stephen was either  a case of cold feet or the disapproval of her father. I wouldn't see either of those as failure on her part.  

Perhaps I need to get a life and not stress about word usage.

I've just begun reading Murder Mindfully, which has one of the best openings. 

First off, I'm not a violent man. Quite the opposite, For example, I've never once gotten into a fight. And I didn't even kill anyone until I was forty-two.

So this busy lawyer is given an ultimatum: he has to sort out his work life balance or his wife will leave him taking their daughter with her. So he goes to mindfulness classes.

I managed to get a last minute 'squeezed me in' hair appointment this morning. The realisation that after three weeks holiday my hair would be, well, a disaster spurred me on. So I am sitting in the chair having my hair coloured feeling as tense as having my hair done always makes me and I thought I'd try some mindfulness breathing exercises. 

It must take a lot of practice. Impossible to cut out the music and other people's discussions - particularly when they're so fascinating. Stepping into the hair salon is like stepping into a different world. A world where people drink. A lot. The woman in the next chair was 42 (her son is 10 and she had him when she was 32) and she was preparing for her annual long weekend in Benidorm trip with three friends, where their main objective seemed to be drinking. I mean my hairdresser's in his early 50s and he still goes out with the boys and gets drunk.

I lead such a sheltered life. Thankfully.

From there it was back to Rough Edges for a final push at clearing. Nearly there.

And as it was before.

Knickers and books

I've posted it.

* * * * *

I have bought ten new pairs of knickers and ordered books from the library.

That's my most important holiday prep done.

* * * * *

I have got into the habit of going up to strangers, usually men, and asking what sort of dog it is they have. Usually cockapoos as I suspected but wanted confirmation. All owners speak highly and recommend getting one.

Husband has become even more vocal in his insistence that we're not getting a dog. "I mean it! You'll have to do everything. You'll have to get up in the morning to let him out!"

Now, Husband is always up first and he brings me a cup of tea in bed but, apparently, even though he's up he isn't going to let the dog out. "He'll run away!"

I've tried to reassure him that not all dogs have a wanderlust like George did. (And Louie it now appears.)

My children and, in particular the grandchildren, are of the opinion I should just go and buy one. 

And here's a photo of George.