…and hafftun cowzy divy. Bart Simpson is the boldest cow and she waylays the barrow to check what’s edible on it before it goes to the bonfire. I’ve mostly been cutting out brambles and dead trees today. They are so dead that they fall down quite nicely if you push them.
But first, I went to the dentist. That hurt. Not the dentist himself, but his bill. He looked carefully for several minutes, assured me that my gums and tongue and suchlike look in good order (I’m glad to hear this, because both the people I have known with mouth or jaw cancer had it originally spotted on routine dental check-ups) and decided to give me a quick clean and polish. The extra five minutes this took presumably justified the £45 bill.
Tonight, babysitting. Dilly and Al are going to the beekeepers meeting. A couple of weeks ago, a customer was stung by a wasp in the shop. She (Val from the pet shop, Badge) was unperturbed, but later her finger swelled up and the next day she collapsed. Steroids put her right, but she’ll have to be careful in future.
I’m a little anxious. Several weeks ago, I was asked if I’d play a few Harvest hymns for a nearby village’s Harvest Supper, which is in their village church. I gained the impression that it would be a bit of rousing singing before the meal. Yesterday, I had a phone call from a chap who wants to agree with me what’s happening and he’s cheerily talking about 40 minutes or so after the meal. What? I’m not doing any sort of recital here. I haven’t time to practise and I haven’t the suitable repertoire. A dashing voluntary or some quiet funeral stuff is what I do, when it isn’t hymns. I haven’t played the piano for ages as mine’s still off for repair. He’s coming round in half an hour to talk about it, and I’ll have to make it quite clear that I can lead singing or accompany a soloist, but I’m not the main event, in any sense.