It wasn’t actually raining this morning, although it was windy and rather cold, so I put on a thick fleece and headed to the post office to explore my options as to how to invest the proceeds from my biscuits, all £19 of it so far. This was prompted by the OH suggesting last night that we could go down to the pub for something hot and I could pay for it, “since you’re earning now.”
I told him quite firmly that a) I’m not earning very much, and b) there’s nothing wrong with toast. But it did make me think about trying to keep track of the money, although I’m conveniently not taking into account yet the cost of the ingredients and the packaging materials. I’m pretty certain I haven’t broken even yet, though with Susan’s ramblers, I might.
So, down to the post office, before they closed for lunch. There was something on the news this morning about freeing up village post offices from some of the regulation they faced, so I asked Celia, the glamorous granny behind the counter who labours under the Stalinistic title of sub-post-mistress, what she thought about it. She’s not keen.
“I quite like my little cubby-hole,” she told me. “And I don’t know what they mean when they say it takes up too much space.”
I looked at the counter on either side of the partition and wondered what she could possibly put on the wafer-thin section that would be released if the partition were removed. Not a lot. I picked up a leaflet for different kinds of card accounts to read over lunchtime and headed home before I was blown away. There aren’t many leaves on the trees now and yet there aren’t many in the gutters either, the wind’s doing such an efficient job.
Jenny joined me for part of the way. “I don’t seem to have seen you for a bit. Fancy coming back for a coffee?”
I was tempted, but remembered Ronnie languishing at home. “You could come back to mine,” I offered.
Unfortunately, Jenny was waiting for the delivery of a new sofa and had only just dared to pop down to the shop for some milk, leaving a note attached to the front door. “You can guarantee they’ll just be pulling away as I get back if I’m not careful,” she said. “By the way, what have you done to your hair? It’s not as red as it was, or have I just got used to it?”
When I got home, I peered at myself in the mirror. Jenny’s right, it’s not as red as it was originally, and I’ve got used to it. I’d even got used to the pillar-box colour it was to begin with. I phoned the hairdresser but they didn’t have any slots today, so I’ve made an appointment for Friday. It’ll be the morning wiped out completely, but Ronnie wants to go into town anyway, so she’ll probably be happy to potter while I’m sitting being chemically altered. The things women go through!