Church Tea, Socks and Beads

Up early again this morning, the children have a rehearsal at Sunday school for the song they are going to sing next week on Mothering Sunday in church. Frankly as one of the recipients of said song I'd rather have fewer perfect notes and more lie ins. The PS is still unwell in bed so church on my own this morning. An uplifting service all about breaking the rules, Mmm. Then its the tea, why is it that people say 'there's one thing church is good at and thats making tea' obviously no one who has ever been to church and tasted church tea would agree. If you happen to find yourself on the 'tea rota' you have to carry a bucket of water from the tap in the sink in the loo beyond the vestry through the church to the urn at the back, fill it up and turn it on then set out the plastic cups. The tea pot sits next to the urn waiting for its ration of 6 teabags each Sunday, you can feel 3 sets of eyes watching and counting as you put them in. If you're really clever you can slip two in together if you use slight of hand, if you're not very clever or you had a few last night, you have to try and slip some extras in later, during the last hymn when you've slipped out of the congregation and before the help joins you to hand out the biscuits.

Home and the chicken in the oven fills the house with the aroma of, of, of melting plastic, why the hell does the chicken in the oven smell of melting plastic, I dash to the oven un-wrap the foil and there it is, a black molton lump of black which started out as the lid of the olive oil spray, how did I do that. It's not on the chicken, no one will know, I hoic it out making it shred like strands of black knitting wool and stick the chicken back in and open the back door to let the smell out. The PS is up and dressed, not happy but chatty, I make him some coffee and peel the potato's and while they're on I slip down to the shed.

I'm sitting there rifling through stuff on my desk and I'm drawn to my neighbours garden and their washing line. I'm not spying, its the view I have out of the window in front of my desk if I put a kink in my neck and stretch it 3 inches to the left, anyway the man next door (MND) is hanging out washing, but why is it all socks. the MND is Swiss, is that what they do, wash all the household socks together and hang them out, I start counting and get to 87 before my neck starts to hurt and he waves to me, he's a friendly chap, he talks alot, a very lot, (can you say very lot) and I find myself doing my best to avoid him most days.

Why do I find myself trying to avoid people. I once met this awful woman whilst doing a craft fair and we agreed to swap parties, I'd do a jewellery party for her, she'd do a hideously expensive candle party for me. We swapped dates but she cancelled mine the week before and I didn't really have time or want a candle party either but she was insistant. She knocked on the door one when I had a friend here for a morning of scrapbookig, we were in the kitchen and I could see her through the mottled glass in the door. 'We made a mad dash out the back door which is in a perfect line to the front door and then spent half an hour giggling like school girls rooted to the spot because she was calling through the letterbox to me, and the path to the shed is also in line with the front, and back door, we were stuck and it was raining, the dog was raving and the MND appeared to tell me there was someone knocking at my door. Half a bloody hour she stood there knocking and ringing and half a bloody hour we stood in the garden in the rain. After 5 mins silence we peared round the door and there she was writing a note. She assumed I must have been out and did I know I'd left my back door open. She would call again later. xxx

Where was I, Oh yes, socks, it was raining, why was he hanging out socks anyway the fool.
Made some nice beads after lunch Iris Orange (which for some reason comes out looking a sort of metalicy khaki) and cream, very nice.