Fiona’s been keeping a low profile since my last entry; I’ve seen her around the village occasionally but she usually crosses the road to avoid having to pass me on the pavement, giving me one of those very pointed looks that suggests she’s planning some sort of revenge, she just hasn’t decided on it yet. All of which is very tedious, but like terrorists, if I let even unspoken threats from her influence my life in any way, then she’s won. And I really don’t like the idea of her winning!
So I’ve carried on pretty much as usual, trying to tackle the jungle that is the back garden in which the foxgloves and the dandelions are winning. I don’t mind foxgloves, but the dandelions really annoy me. Particularly since, even though the OH had a go at mowing them recently, we’ve just spent two weeks in Florence (hence the hiatus here, Florence is *not* a small village!), so the weeds seem to be winning. Even Verity commented and at the moment, that’s saying something. She dropped in on Saturday to hand over a couple of parcels that had arrived while we were away (birthday presents for George, when I get round to wrapping them) and after sipping morosely at a coffee that she’d forgotten to add sweeteners to, she looked around and said, “Your lawn’s looking a bit peaky.” There’s currently more moss and dandelion than grass, so calling it a lawn is overstating the case considerably, but she’s right. Consequently, this morning I phoned one of those companies that look after lawns, you know, visit four times a year to add fertiliser or something, and we’ll see what they can do.
We’d been invited for dinner at Paul and Celia’s on Saturday evening, which was very pleasant and a chance to meet some other people. There were ten of us altogether, a couple of familiar faces from the village, but mostly not, and it was a full-blown six course meal if you include the cheese and port at the end, and the subsequent coffee and liqueurs. Celia appeared to have got someone in to help with the preparation and then with serving the drinks and so on, and I said at one point that I thought for a teenager, it probably paid better than babysitting.
“Oh, I’m not paying her,” Celia replied. “That’s my daughter, Kathryn. She’s doing a degree in hotel management or some such, so it’s good practice for her.”
That may be true, but I’m sure the poor girl would prefer the money. And I doubt her mum can write a reference for her!