Today, I thought I’d go to Norwich. It wasn’t that I didn’t have any work to do – I’ll have to do that as soon as I’ve written this and was busy well after midnight last night (technically this morning, of course) too – but the sudden urge to look at clothes is rare and best acted upon. So I emailed Ronan to see if he was free for lunch, which he usually is, and we agreed to meet. I reckon I do him good, because otherwise he’d eat at his desk as so many do – including me, only too often, I can’t deny it.
Moorish is a jolly good name for a falafel restaurant, don’t you think? A nice play on words. And a nice meal too, with plenty of salad and fresh lemonade with the falafel. And then I toddled on to Jarrolds to buy a few books (still can’t read like I used to, I can’t cope with fiction very well now, but persevering, five on the go and the prospect of finishing three of them in a couple of days), looked at clothes but – h’m, I don’t know, didn’t quite do it for me – and headed back to House of Fraser and found things to try on. Going by eye rather than size, I picked up sizes 8 and 10 – one size 10 dress didn’t fit, though it went well enough over my hips, I think it’s because I’m so short that there was surplus material under the bust. But the 10 and 8 trousers and 8 dress were fine. I’ve not been that size before, ever – that is, not since my clothes were bought by age rather than size. Of course, an 8 now would be a 12 in 1970, but all the same…
If I’d found more, I’d have bought it – two interviewing days and a wedding in the next three weeks, but the wedding will be ok if the weather doesn’t change markedly (I went to the groom’s sister’s wedding last year, so can’t wear the same thing) and the navy dress I bought today will be for the first interview day, with shocking pink the next day to startle the candidates out of pigeonholing me. They’re all men, so haven’t the same leeway except, possibly, with their socks (I realise they may have googled me and be reading this, which is fine. Showing initiative. I don’t judge by appearances, anyway, though ill manners are damning) or their ties.
Ben is in my bad books, having suddenly lunged for a chicken, skinning my hand with his lead as he pulled, so I had to let go. Fortunately, she got away and I shut him in the porch, very angry. I locked the door to be sure he wouldn’t open it. Later, R got home and I saw him get out his phone, sitting at the table outside. The home phone rang. “Why are you ringing me?” “I’m locked out.” “Ah, sorry about that” – and I explained. “Why didn’t you knock?” He had no answer. He’s odd like that.