Mystery fencing

Today Paddy and I walked past the new houses being built down the road. Being of an inquisitive nature, I wanted to see how they were coming along and the answer to that was, quite well, I suppose and one or two of the plots or houses are sold already. A little further on, down the lane that leads through the wooded area overlooking the lake, I noticed this fencing.

The wooden stakes are about three feet high and the black in between is some sort of fabric, but I've never seen a fence like it before.
Needs further investigation, perhaps...
Or maybe I just need to get a life!

Mi pluma, tu pluma

One pen I have, sitting, neatly aligned with its accompanying pencil at the top left hand corner of the coffee table. (Keith has a theory that I am a bit obsessive compulsive as I also line the remotes up in the bottom left hand corner. As if!)
Meanwhile, on NASA, there are at least a hundred (all-right, three or four) pens specifically for Keith's use when someone rings up and he needs to write down their details. There are also three or four small notepads.
So why can he never put his hand on a pen or pad when he needs them and why  does his hand immediately stretch out to the coffee table to pinch mine? And then, of course, why do I never get it back?

How did that happen?

"Do you think I've kept the sink nice and shiny?" asked Dad when I arrived on Thursday.
"I've moved that cable up the stairs because I knew you wouldn't be happy about it still being there when you got home," said Keith after I got back this afternoon.
After spending most of my adult life complaining that no-one ever takes any notice of things I say, it's a bit disconcerting, to say the least, to find at least two people apparently hanging on my every word.
How did I manage to do that, then?
Or is it something else that comes with advancing years?  :)

My pink phase

These days, I notice that the colour pink is becoming increasingly attractive to me. I find myself searching in stationery shops for pink pens, my small handbag diary is, unbelievably, sparkly pink and yesterday, I noticed this pink rainhat and found myself thinking that it would probably be very useful for walking Paddy on rainy days  (for me to wear, not him!).

"I'm in my pink phase," I explained to friends recently when I fished out my pink diary to jot down our next lunch date. No comment was made, but did I imagine the slightly raised eyebrows?
Perhaps I missed out on this aspect of my early teenage years. Let's face it, it's quite a while ago, too long to remember.
Or maybe - and this is a lot more worrying - maybe, I am getting a little too close to my purple phase!

Any colour as long as it's blue

I don't normally keep abreast of local Bristol news, but I had recently heard about the city's latest idiotic scheme brilliant idea for its taxi drivers. Apparently, some desk-bound jobsworths had decided in their wisdom that all city cabs should henceforth be any colour as long as it's 'Bristol blue', a precise shade found in Bristol glassware. The fact that the necessary respray would cost an average of £3000 and mean that the cab would be off the road for about three days, meaning three days' loss of earnings for the driver, either passed them by or was deemed to be unimportant, just as long as the city cabs presented a corporate image.
Not surprisingly, there was a bit of an outcry about this and the council did eventually concede that there could be a slightly wider interpretation of 'blue' in that it didn't have to be the one particular shade previously stipulated.
With me so far? Good.
So, having dealt with the cab drivers, the powers that be then turned their attention to private hire taxis and yes, you've guessed it, to avoid confusion, they can now be any colour except blue! Private hire taxis which have the misfortune to be blue (any shade) will no longer be licensed. Well, it is understandable. After all, there is so little difference between a cab (big) and a private hire cab (much like any ordinary car) that the public could so easily be confused.
And on the bright side, car resprayers are going to be doing a roaring trade. You really couldn't make it up!

Travelling south

Today I am off to Bristol for the weekend to visit Dad. Take-off will be later than usual as the car needs two new back tyres fitted. They are still legal but it was an advisory on the MOT a couple of weeks ago to get them replaced so I would prefer to do it before the journey rather than after. After a week of reminders, Keith ordered the tyres on Monday (It's a man thing, you know, anything to do with the car, involves face to face conversations - no relying on the phone; that would be too easy!). They were promised for yesterday and, guess what, they hadn't arrived,  hence the need for the job to be done this morning instead.
"They obviously forgot to order them," Keith said, after ringing the garage yesterday.
"Of course," I said, "I don't know why you use that garage. I've never been impressed with them."
"I think I'd better take the car in," said Keith hurriedly. Obviously doesn't want me to upset them...
Anyway, I'm hoping that the tyres will come with go-faster stripes so I'll get to where I'm going with no hold-ups. Yes, I know, unlikely!

Life at a leisurely pace

So, yesterday afternoon, we came back home from our pleasant weekend in Barmouth, where we had enjoyed our first outing of the year in our caravan.

Continuing with the theme of life at a leisurely pace, although this time, imposed rather than chosen, was my visit this morning to the post office. Not the local one - no, the powers that be decided to close that one, and not the next nearest, run by The Grumpy Man, but one in a nearby village which I have only popped into once or twice. Today's visit, however, was ... well, not a fleeting one anyway.
As I walked in, I noticed that there was a lengthy queue of  people ahead of me, which, on a Monday morning was probably not unusual but there was one lady serving and a man 'faffing about' behind the scenes doing, I know not what, but definitely not showing any awareness of the fact that the place was filled with humankind. After several minutes, the realisation did dawn and he too began to serve. Slowly we shuffled forward and more people came in. Eventually it was my turn. I stood before the man, politely waiting for him to notice my existence. Behind me I heard someone saying, "You certainly need to cultivate patience in here!"
"You ain't kidding," I thought in reply.
Finally the man looked up. "Could you tell me how much this would be 'special delivery'?" I asked. I had given him a light package of a pair of glasses that I was sending to have new lenses put in. The firm had sent me a padded envelope and prepaid label but advised sending it by special or recorded delivery, so that's what I intended to do.
Post Office Man (POM) picked it up gingerly and scrutinised it for what seemed like about half an hour, muttering something about, "Not sure about this....label....amount..." before informing me that it would be £5.48. "So what would recorded delivery be, then?" I asked.
This defeated him completely and he turned to Post Office Woman (POW) to ask "What do we do with this?"
"I don't know," she said, "We never get those."
(It's a parcel! I wanted to shout.)
I eventually deduced that the problem filling their minds was the pre-paid label, as they weren't sure whether they could deduct the postage on the label from the cost of sending it recorded delivery.
"Is she returning something?" asked POW.
(I am HERE! You can ask me directly! I screamed internally.)
More muttering between them followed, during which I slowly lapsed into a catatonic state and the hands on the clock crept ever forward. Finally, a decision was made. Computer says cost of recorded delivery is 78p. More minutes ticked by as POM laboriously and one-fingeredly tapped the delivery details into the computer. By this time, I had ripped the correct money out of my purse and pushed it towards him, where he began to count it, pausing to scrutinise the date on each coin (OK, so I exaggerated the last bit).
After more than 20 minutes, I stepped out into the bright light of normality.
Next time, I'll just go to Grumpy Man's post office. At least there I get out before Keith and Paddy forget what I look like!