A Flock of Sheep

You know the phrase ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’? Well the Spinster feel’s she has rather excelled herself of late. Brace yerself for a rambling rollercoaster of frankly ridiculous solutions to problems you never knew existed! With a few left field observations on life’s trivia (the minutia that pass one by most of the time (with good reason)). (Don’t you just lurve a double bracket! So utterly unnecessary but somehow devilishly tempting in its banality!)

Yesterday one’s morning kicked off most appropriately with Baroness Betty Boothroyd, former Speaker of the House, launching forth on Lords Reform with a kick in the solar plexus (which she delivered with a forceful punch)! Go Lady, or should I say crossbencher Boothroyd; what a delicious example to us all of the ‘devil may care’ meets ‘you can’t touch me’ opportunities afforded to the woman in her mature years. Respect is most certainly due to Betty unlike Ms Widdecombe who appeared later on the Today programme although I confess I paid rather less attention to this piece. However later in the afternoon I caught a programme presented by the self same lady which seemed to hinge around a town of the same name. Widdecombe not Ann. I turned off, having arrived at my destination, when the presenter was off to meet a psychic at the cross roads where some unfortunate woman had been buried decades (or perhaps centuries) earlier. Apparently the ‘resting place’ was on account of her having taken her own life meaning she couldn’t be buried on consecrated ground.

Note to self simply because one may be a Spinster tis no excuse for poor judgement in ones mature years. Invisible as we may be in Society there are surely limits to the pursuit of visibility? Real life is quite exciting enough without succumbing to the temptations of reality television. Self preservation at all costs me thinks and this is why the Spinster will not be agreeing to any further interviews irrespective of the perspective requested. Ones recent foray in the regional press was a salutary lesson; one of a most sobering nature. For those of you who know me you will be familiar with the eccentric self-deprecating humour frequently dripping from my lips. Irony taken out of context is not funny; the presentation of one’s ‘witticisms’ turned the Spinster into a shallow muppet or should that be puppet? Thankfully Jack Osbourne to whom the ‘advice’ piece was directed will never see it! One is tempted to say one should not mock the afflicted but that would be disingenuous.

To demonstrate the multifaceted complex being the Spinster is do please read on. For the avoidance of doubt, in the main, I am being ironic! On the way back from a town in the heart of Wales, I turned a corner at (legal) speed and was faced with an entire flock of sheep in the road. Braking I saw the whites of the eyes of the driver behind me (who practically performed a once illegal act (entering from behind) on account of the proximity to my rear end)! Locals in rural Powys have a tendency to ‘own’ the road as they adopt a familiar death wish approach to driving. Presumably the said same would know precisely what to do if, on failing to brake, a living jumper on legs becomes a side of mutton in an instant. I did spend the next half hour pondering how one would manoeuvre the collateral damage into ones vehicle. That particular day was rather, shall we say, inclement and I can’t abide the smell of wet wool at the best of times so a rather large blanket of a suitably absorbance material would be required to wrap the blessed thing in before wrestling it onto the back seat (the boot currently being used as a mobile storage space). Seriously surely it would be wasteful to leave several family sized Sunday joints on the side of the A470? Not to mention the artisanal craft options that Kirsty ‘Make Do and Mend’ Allsop would leap at assuming she had shears, (or a shearer – now we’re talking), to hand to remove the fleece.

The question is when does quite legitimate (albeit careless) road-kill become poaching or stealing? Should one phone a friend or the farmer to report the incident? Best just slow down and pay more attention me thinks especially as one can’t attend another speed awareness course for 36 (now 35) months. In my defence, (already an apology (or admission of guilt) is implied), I had left home rather early that morning and by the time of the flock alert had delivered a full day workshop. On the way up, on account of not wanting to be late, one had miraculously managed to consume a breakfast of a banana and a pot of Mullerice, (plain minus any additions (strawberry, vanilla custard etc), all without spilling a drop! OK not big or clever but frankly heroic for a person perpetually on vibrate on account of her affliction!

More distracting had been the heavily tattooed cleavage of a woman who joined the workshop group over lunch. We’d bonded over our shared choice of fruit salad; her’s on account of some limit yer carbs diet and mine on the ‘it was the only thing suitable in the fridge’ diet. Now one wasn’t ogling the puppies, honestly I was a captive audience or should I say a hostage to the visa given the proximity of the seats and the revealing plunge (i.e. close your eyes and dive straight in) neckline of the top. All I could think was ouch! Needles, delicate tissue and how did the ‘artist’ keep the medium in position to avoid doing a Jackson Pollock? Sadly some questions must remain unanswered and most certainly unasked although one will remain curious. A google search may be required at some point me thinks!

Arriving home a little exhausted one lost ones balance almost ending up in the boot. Coupled with a close call when a recycling lorry drove passed me earlier in the week one must pay more attention to avoid falling under the wheels of the bus! But hey the guys in the lorry would have been able to give a fairly accurate description of the Spinster as they had a good ol’ stare as the vehicle practically grazed the seat of one trousers (certainly not slacks)!

Duty calls, that would be daughterly duty, as one is off ‘up North’ to see a gentleman called Basil for a second opinion. Of course preparation has been considerable and time consuming as one doesn’t wish to present as less than perfectly turned out. On this occasion one would like a second glance to be taken; if only one can smother a smile banishing images of a puppet with a bushy tail or the Fawlty Towers ‘Baaasseell!). Wish me luck ladies!




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