Blame it on the Weather

Good morning my dear readers and welcome to a lovely Sunday at Comb Towers. For once in our lives, peace and harmony has reigned in the homestead - mainly because I have had my head down working industriously to finish off my crime novel, so have had no occasion to get into bother with anyone, which, quite frankly, is nothing short of a miracle.

   Spouse has been hammering and sawing away at his nativity stable, (see last week’s post) and there’s another miracle, he still has all his fingers and toes and as yet, there is no blood in the garage. But, all good things come to an end and come to an end they did, when a different little accident occurred.

   We were at a local arts & crafts fair last weekend. It had been raining first thing, but by the time we arrived at the venue, all was well and the rain had stopped and we unloaded in the sunshine - such is the fickleness of the English weather. Brilliant, all was well in our universe. Everything was unloaded and Spouse returned the cart to the car. Now, how unlucky is this..? He lifted the cart into the boot to stow it away for the day and his feet went from under him. He must have been standing in a muddy bit.

   Well, I know he was, (lucky in one way, because he went flat on the back and the cart came tumbling down on him, grazed his eye, (lucky he didn’t lose it) and then whacked him on the head. I was indoors setting out my books and then this vision of amazing  unloveliness walked towards me. I don’t need to spell it out, do I dear reader? You know what’s coming… blood oozing from a lovely cut on his head and spectacular clarts of mud all down his back and his breeks, ( that’s for the Scots, trousers for the English, pants for the Americans).

   Dear reader, I just sighed. I had work to do and I know that sounds so unsympathetic but fortunately I am used to Spouse getting into scrapes and can usually patch him up again.

    Now I’ll digress slightly but stay with me. When we lived on a smallholding in the Durham Dales, Spouse had a part-time job delivering groceries from the local store to the farmsteads. Fine and dandy. One day, whilst loading his van outside the store, the van lid (can I call it that?) crashed down on his head and took a spectacular slice out of his bald pate.) No, dear reader, here’s the rub. At the top of a very slight hill from where he was parked was the medical centre. Why did he not go there and get stitched up? Because… “I thought I would come home to you” A lot of disinfectant and several steristrips later I thought he might live.

   So, here we are again. Out came the travelling medical chest and Spouse was cleaned and steristripped. But of the mud all over him? I could not help him there. He was homeward bound for a fresh set of clothes.

   As ever, dear reader, so far, so jolly good. I wish that was the end of the story. It never is, is it? Well, as far as I can piece things together, Spouse wended his way home and removed his muddy raiment and, trying to be a considerate soul, bless his heart, put his muddy trousers and waistcoat in a bucket of water, to try to get the stains out. Very laudable and I get it.

   What he forgot was that he had his wallet, cards and cash in his waistcoat pockets! So, the next morning when he wanted to go out to buy bits and bobs for his nativity stable, his wallet, cash and cards were nowhere to be found. Oh,dearie me, where could they be?

   I had a fair idea where they might be, but couldn’t resist watching Spouse ransack his den for the missing items. I didn’t let it go on too long until I gently suggested he might swish about in the bucket and perhaps he might locate them..?

   And there they were. Relief, relief, relief! Cards, cash and wallet are now spread out in the sunshine pouring into the conservatory. Let’s hope all are usable after this adventure.

   Have a lovely week my friends. We will catch up next week. It’s going to be a calm, happy week, isn’t it?