The dreaded February

On a rare recent fine day, I patrolled the garden, which is looking very encouraging.  The roses are almost ready for pruning, and lots of bulbs are coming up.  The last lot of crocuses we planted seem to be rather skinny, or to put it in glass-half-full terms, charmingly delicate.  

The local Renault shop kindly slotted me in today for the replacement rear light cluster that had come off worse in a discussion with Sheila’s dustbin.  The bill came to roughly seven times what I paid for my first Renault, but tempus has, of course, fugited a bit in the intervening 50+ years.

Quite a busy week for us.  My esteemed pension providers got in touch to tell me to return their digital tv box, which we haven’t used much, and not at all for the past year or so, so have stopped paying for.  I tried to print a sticky return label, but neither of the local One Stops could deliver.  I eventually found a way to print a label at home (not without scorching the ceiling of the study with robust language), so it’s on its way.  Had I not sent it back, they’d have charged us £89, which is a bit cute, since they’ll probably just bin it when it reaches them.  I hope they appreciate the packing: a bran flakes box.  I’ll refrain from the obvious analogies.

Nice errand this Saturday.  The ancient preserving pan has lost a couple of rivets, so I’m off to the good old repair café, where I’m assured that Chris the bike fettler will be able to do the necessary.  I suspect said pan has been in business for over 100 years, having probably belonged to my grandmother.  I can confidently vouch for the past 75 years anyway.  It capably produced a batch of marmalade a couple of weeks ago, so I’m in no hurry to pension it off.

Next update may be from furrin parts: watch this space.