Just got back from my fifth meeting in two days, having done homework from last and preparation for next in the meantime. I can do efficient after all. I found myself chairing the last, unexpectedly, which was good as it meant we finished half an hour early and were back in the hall swigging wine and scoffing cheese while there was still plenty there (we look after ourselves in Norfolk villages) rather than finishing late and only finding a couple of cream crackers and dregs.
I’m being Granny tomorrow. And so looking forward to it. Although I realise I haven’t thought about anything for lunch, so it’ll be an egg again. My babies almost lived on egg, banana and avocado as they were quick, easy and available.
I don’t know what’s up with Hotmail, but I can’t access emails. Ho hum. I can get on to MSN and I can sign in to my business email account, but not my personal one. I don’t suppose there’s anything vital. Although, isn’t it dreary when you don’t check emails for a few days and find you’ve got dozens to trawl through. Most of which are junk or trivial.
At least you know who they are from, so have some idea if they are worth reading. Not like innocently answering the phone and finding that it is a poor cold caller on minimum wage who you don’t want to be rude to but will on no account buy from.
My mother, at the end of her life, finally found the perfect answer to cold callers. She had returned home from hospital, having received what she called her Death Sentence (and it was, but she said it in CAPITALS). My sister and I were sitting in her bedroom, drinking tea and keeping each other’s spirits up when the phone rang. She answered. It was a charity caller wanting her to sell raffle tickets. My mum explained politely that she was just out of hospital, she was really quite ill and it was not possible for her to sell tickets, however good the cause was. “There’s no hurry” said the lass brightly, “we’ve got to December 17th.” “Unfortunately,” said my mother with great dignity, “I may not have until December 17th.” Apologies and confusion from caller, who rapidly said goodbye. My sister, my mum and I collapsed with laughter. At last, the perfect response. And it was true (far too bad taste to say if it were not). What had been, moments before, a tragedy, was suddenly the best line ever to put off chuggers (charity muggers, has the phrase spread beyond England?). The phone rang again. Mummy answered. Said hello, then, kindly, please don’t worry, goodbye.
The lass had accidentally rung the same number again. We fell off our chairs. Tears of laughter flowed.
When the going gets tough, black humour is the best medicine.