After all my talk about diaries yesterday, I figured I should probably write an up-to-date one, huh?
It’s been a while since I wrote one of these diary posts, and I wish I had a good reason for it, but honestly, it’s just that nothing much has happened for me to write about, really. I mean, it’s snowed a fair bit, and when it hasn’t been snowing it’s mostly been raining, so that’s been a big factor. Why is it that snow in springtime feels so much colder than snow in winter? I’ve no idea, but I DO know it’s been pretty depressing: in fact, we were watching Game of Thrones last week (OMG! GoT is back!), and I noticed that a part of the Westeros map was labelled ‘The Lands of Always Winter’, so now I’m just wondering who I need to contact to see about re-naming the UK to that? Seems appropriate, no?
Anyway, speaking of things-that-normally-happen-in-spring, last Sunday was Greek Easter, which, for those of you just joining us, is a Pretty Big Deal in our family, as Terry’s mum is Greek. We celebrated with the traditional vast quantities of food, and red painted eggs:
My egg did NOT win the “egg smashing” contest later that day: because it was a bad egg – and yes, I’ve been waiting all week to make that joke. Boom boom!
On Tuesday night, Terry and I headed into Glasgow with my parents, to see the Dixie Chicks in concert:
I’ve loved the Dixie Chicks ever since their music taught me, many years ago, that I was not, in fact, the only person in the world to need wide open spaces (a place to make my big mistakes), so it was amazing to see them in concert. Apologies to the man in front of me who kept glancing round in alarm during ‘Not Ready To Make Nice’ – what can I say, though: I’m NOT ready to make nice? And sometimes I feel like shouting about it. *shrugs*
The big news from the village this week, meanwhile, is that the Post Office is now Not the Post Office: the General Store is now the Post Office. This is good news for the villagers because, as some of you might recall, the previous post office was run by People Who Hate People, and who also hate sending mail, and that’s quite a bad combination for postal workers, isn’t it? Anyway, this week I had yet more pairs of jeans to return to the stores I’d optimistically ordered them from, so I headed to the new post office to see what it was like.
(Actually, that’s not true: I didn’t know it had moved, so I headed to the OLD post office first. And it was closed. Because it was lunchtime, and village life is more or less the same as 1950s-life, as far as I can gather. So I headed home again, and endured some … I want to say “gentle ribbing” here, but it was more like outright taunting, from Terry, who could not BELIEVE that I had YET AGAIN gone to the post office when it was closed for lunch. I swear to God, I’m not exaggerating when I say this happens EVERY SINGLE TIME. I just CANNOT seem to grasp the fact that places round here close for lunch: and don’t even get me started on the ‘Half-Day-on-a-Wednesday’ thing. SERIOUSLY. So, anyway, I came home, waited 20 minutes, then went back, and only THEN did I find out it wasn’t even the post office any more, and that the new post office DOESN’T close for lunch. Hallelujah, and why could I not have found that out sooner?)
So, anyway, I go into the new post office (NPO), which, as you know, is also a general store, and it turns out that although it doesn’t close for lunch, it apparently does still work by 1950s rules in all other respects, because there was a woman at the counter, and she was doing this thing where she asked for each item individually, and then either the man behind the counter went and fetched it for her, or he told her where it was, and she went and got it herself. So she’d be all, “Do you have any beans?” and he’d say, “Yeah, in the corner next to the milk,” then she’d go and get them, come back and go, “Do you have milk?”, and so it would go on.
I waited patiently for something like 5 hours, then finally the woman got to the last item on her list, which was coleslaw.
“Do you have any coleslaw?” she asked.
“No,” said the shopkeeper. “I have some salad cream, though.”
(I’ve learned to my cost that Americans think the words “salad cream” are totes hilaire, by the way, so if you’re wondering what I’m talking about, THIS is salad cream. It’s really quite tasty.)
At this, the woman reeled backwards in horror. Like, she LITERALLY reeled backwards in horror.
“SALAD CREAM?” she said, horrified. “I don’t want $%^£%&*% SALAD CREAM! I make my own dressings from scratch, I’ll have you know! Because I’m not THAT %^%$^&* lazy!”
Then she looked at me, nodded in the direction of the shopkeeper, and said, “Can you believe this? The cheek of it!” And then I had to stand there and laugh, while pretending that I, too, make all of my salad dressings from scratch, using ingredients gathered by hand, during a full moon. I buy my coleslaw ready-made in a tub, though, because that’s NOT lazy. I was so confused: and I mean, the swearing was done laughingly, so she wasn’t actually annoyed or anything, but I could tell she was totally serious about the rest of it, and now I’m wondering if my lazy-ass ways are the reason I’ve never really fitted in around here? Also, I really want some coleslaw now, so I’ll leave you with that thought for now.
Have a good weeekend!