Z has not made a fatal error

If anyone came on this site a couple of days ago – or, rather, tried to – and there was a forbidding ‘fatal error’ message, it wasn’t.  I was told to upgrade and that overloaded the available bandwidth, or whatever it’s called – anyway, it crashed because it was full.  Ronan has dealt with it and I’ve said that he can always delete posts from more than two years or so ago, if he likes, because they’re all still there on the old Blogger blog anyway.  I won’t get rid of that.  He thinks it’ll be all right, though, it’s just that it automatically backs up every so often, which means it takes up twice the space it should do.

It’s been a lovely weekend, the family all came over for tea yesterday – afternoon tea, that is, with three sorts of cake, scones with jam and clotted cream, cucumber sandwiches and little sausages so that we could pretend the children were having some protein too. Everyone arrived two or three hours before I’d been expecting them, which was lovely, and Tim rapidly rustled up some lunch for those who hadn’t had any.  He also discovered how much my children talk when they get together – they all get on really well, all six of them, and they don’t see each other all that often.  They brought their presents for me, since I won’t be seeing them for Christmas.  I haven’t finished shopping yet though, so I’ll have to deliver mine to them.  Ro and Dora are going to be with Weeza and co on the Day, so I can drop them off there rather than go all the way up to the wilds of north Norfolk.

Because the new chairman of governors is receiving post-operative treatment, he won’t be able to give a speech at prize giving tomorrow, so it’ll be up to me again.  I’ve looked out the last five and reminded myself of the sort of thing I usually say.  This really will be the last time.

Today, I’m on my own and will get out all the presents I’ve bought and find out that I’ve got a lot less done than I thought I had, because that’s always the way.  I still can’t really cope with Christmas cards, so will only do the absolute essentials (it doesn’t help that I’ve never found the address book since Russell died.  He had a rooted objection to putting it back where he found it).  I’ve got a lot to do in the next week and might even make a list.  I think I’m going to need something to push me along.  It’ll be only too easy to sit and not do much, while thinking about our darling friend.  Her funeral is two days before Christmas, I’ll send her love from each of you while I’m there.  I can’t truly think that magnificent spirit isn’t about somewhere still, I’m sure she will know in some way.

7 comments on “Z has not made a fatal error

  1. Glenda

    Yes, I saw your fatal error listing, but of course I didn’t believe it!
    It is terribly sad about your dear friend Zig. Her poor animal friends will be terribly distressed.

    1. Z Post author

      When I was there ten days ago, her dogs hardly left her. She used to say that Indi knew, she could smell illness. Her elder daughter is looking after the animals at present, it must be so hard for everyone.

    1. Z Post author

      Eek! I told you I don’t prepare posts but just write them! I’d better correct it and make nonsense of your comment! Thank you xx

  2. chairwoman ros

    I read Zig’s blog the other day. What chums we could have been. She’d had a crush on Jimmy Page who’d been a pal of mine in our late teens. Possibly early twenties too. Not too sure how long. I remember walking down South Audley Street when Led Zep had just taken off in the States. I’d already met my late husband then, so I must have been 24ish. Hm funny how things get confused in ones head.

    Anyway, I could have told her tales and escapades from misspent youths.

    I shall be thinking of her on the day. And of course, of you.

    1. Z Post author

      Ros, I’ve not come to meet you yet, it’s been such a busy year and every time I had a few free days, I went down to see Zig. Thank goodness I did, but I’ve not seen other friends as a result.

      Zig will not be forgotten, even by those who never met her.


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