I peered out imperiously from my roll neck jumper, emerging upwards very much like a periscope on special ops. I detected the ambient temperature of the room was lacking and retreated back into my warm woollen garment.
Yes pals, the inhabitants of Spindle Towers are marching their way through the unpleasant depths of a cold snap, wearily trudging towards the ultimate prize of the wood burner being lit. There is normally a slight fracas as we all jostle for pole position in front of it.
The legwarmers are out, as are all interesting modes of undercrackers, thermal combinations and balaclavas. I would not like to bandy about the idea that the loons are being parsimonious with the heating…however…the cap seems to fit.
They claim (yet again) that they are offsetting the spiralling heating costs with the constant stack of bills that arrive with my name at the top. I feel this was terribly rude and made my point by waving my bemittened paws about as we drank our morning coffee. Prepare yourselves for a Spindle top tip here. When sufficiently riled, you can turn your mittens on a string into a serviceable weapon of minimal destruction by twirling around and letting them strike any object in their path. This is especially effective if you pop a tennis ball in one before spinning…although it did make Hector squeak when it him him squarely in the grunties.
I have another complaint about this time of year. The loons, who are usually as socially popular as a fart in a tent, suddenly become socialites and seem to spend almost every evening out and about. Unaccustomed as they are to the rigors of social intercourse, they throw themselves at the mercy of a festive tipple and come tottering back giggling and playing human pinball with the furniture.
Naturally I disapprove of such behaviour. One such evening I had been hosting a bridge evening with the girls, when I heard the clattering of Hector trying to operate a key in the door. We all sat back with interest to see how he would get on with that particular task. Some minutes later, amid LOUD whispers and outrageous insults, they both fell through the door in a beatiffic heap.
The girls and I continued to sip our gin slings and nibble on our twiglets. They continued to lay on the carpet, beaming at us all.
This my pals, is sadly one example of the reprehensible behaviour that has occured this festive season. Thankfully they are unaware of the evenings that I have had to shimmy up the ivy clad wall to gain access to my boudoir at 4am. Therefore I can continue to claim the upper moral paw, which I was doing this very morning as we sat around the kitchen table, planning our Christmas festivities.
We had decided that this year would be a dignified, and quiet affair. This was very shortly amended after a phonecall when it was discovered that Mother Josephine would also be within the Towers for the day as the Velvet Marmoset was still being fumigated after the taser and soup incident (please see last blog, Spindles in the soup). Within fifteen minutes of learning of her arrival, we had a grand day of revelry and a huge amount of wonderous wasailing for organise.
There would be Margaritas, a special covered outside area for nocturnal tiddling AND linen napkins shaped as swans.
Luckily Sister J’s electronic tag had been tinkered with so she could leave the confines of the Velvet Marmoset, although I would like to reassure you that her misdemeanor that led to the tagging was not that serious.
It was an unfortunate catalogue of misunderstandings surrounding her display of prize winning vegetables at the W.I. that had caused a great deal of public outcry. In one case, Mr Pendlebury (honorary member) developed a determined fascination with them, which ended up with him pursuing Sister J as he had some questions. Thus her tag was really more for her own protection from his wild eyed interest. It was suggested that Mr Pendleton should himself be tagged as the perpetrator of the naughtiness, however he had gone to ground and could not be raised, even by the sight of a plumptious aubergine.
So there we were, tummies full of coffee and Portuguese custard tarts, bristling with Christmas excitement. Well, the loons were bristling, I was shivering. It was time to retreat once again into the depths of my jumper and to contemplate what I would get my loons for a gift. I had left it late again, and thought that rather than relying on the post to get something delivered in time, that I would make something. A wool based offereing seemed to be an excellent choice, so I fired up the knitting needles and began plans for a chunky knit muff (with hidden pockets for precious things) and knitted cowboy chaps to wear over jeans. I will let you decide which gift is for whom.
Until next time, take care of yourselves
2 thoughts on “Spindle resting by an open fire…”
Brillant as always, gave us all a good chuckle, especially the tennis ball in the mitten!
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