This morning my usually fertile mind is utterly bereft of blog topic ideas. A fuzzy head from overdoing celebration birthday drinks for girlfriend Sarah’s aunt a contributing factor towards this epiphany impotence. Yesterday’s shindig taking place within the boundaries of West Yorkshire’s borough of Horbury.
Horbury, or ‘Orbury as Sarah refers to it in her broad Yorkshire brogue, meaning ‘stronghold on muddy land’ apparently gained its name in the late 11th century. The title bequeathed when the Sherriff of Wakefield, Atticus Crunch, travelled through the area and told an underling “It’s really muddy here and there a fort over there… Henceforth this place is to be known as Horbury… Oh and can someone dig this bloody cart out of this bog?!”
During yesterday’s knees up for Sarah’s aunt Pauline, there was very little mud on show, or indeed a fort. Present, though, were a bunch of folks with a sunny disposition, interesting anecdotes (are you sure they are your relations, Sarah? 😉 ) and a penchant for supping… Groups of individuals I actively seek out during these occasions… That being said, Sarah’s mum Judith came along, ensuring yours truly didn’t get overly giddy.
I am only kidding about Judith who (thus far) has not given me too hard a time while courting her daughter. Consequently, yours truly isn’t at a stage of borrowing late comedian Les Dawson’s quips at his mother-in-law’s expense. Whimsical putdowns such as:-
“My mother-in-law hates me so much she says she’s gonna dance on my grave… So, I’ve arranged to be buried at sea.”
“I said to my mother-in-law, ‘Treasure’ – I always call her Treasure… She reminds me of something that’s just been dug up.”
“I can always tell when the mother-in-law is coming towards the front door because the mice throw themselves on the traps!”
As I say, though, Judith has welcomed me into her family with open arms; consequently, I have no need to degrade myself by making Dawsonesque quips at her expense… Well, not yet anyhow.
It was the first time I had met the members of Sarah’s family present. During one of the occasions, she introduced me an aunt who afforded me the following greeting “Nice to meet you, Gary… What is it you do?!” … I’m still working on a response 24 hours later.
My Ossett beau looked resplendent throughout the afternoon. Sadly, by the evening, with effects from the wine kicking in and her lipstick application became ever more erratic, leaving for home she looked more like Ronald McDonald… On the plus side, this unplanned transformation resulted in a couple of gratis Big Macs on the return journey.
Going off on a tangent, as things stand, with feelings of lethargy and indifference for the drive to Scarborough, I am probably going to stay at my Wakefield apartment this week. As opposed to venturing to the Yorkshire Wolds periphery where my campervan currently resides.
I can handle the endless time spent in solitude when I surrounded by the comforts of my flat. However, almost constant on-my-toddery at the campervan is starting to dent my spirits for the camping pastime.
This diminishment of my brio levels leading to manifesting thoughts over the weekend of perhaps selling dear old Victor the VW campervan.
A notion I am unlikely to follow through with; however, for me to even have the thought, after the ten months of great memories during tarries in Vic, concerns me a tad… I suppose the inclement weather conditions during most tarries over to Scarbs is contributing significantly to this spiritual malaise.
Sitting in my office, out of the window to my right I see a bunch of middle-aged folks prepping the local bowling green for this afternoon’s match. Monday’s occasions when a bunch of local pentagenerians and sexagenarians head to the green field beside my apartment block; testing their bowling acumen against rivals from the other Wakefield manors… Who knows, maybe even a team from ‘Orbury.
As I am in possession of a set of bowls belonging to my late father, I have been contemplating joining the club a mere 100 metres from my apartment. Pinning my flag to the crown green mast, so to speak… Or should that be, so to write?
I haven’t played bowls for many years, the last time being around 15 years ago. An occasion when I lost enthusiasm for the sport after being barred from yelling “FORE” (as in golf) if someone was in the path of my travelling bowl… Me taking a run up to every chuck also seemingly putting peoples noses out of joint.
Yours truly is tentatively looking for a part-time job at the moment. Consequently, I have joined the Indeed recruitment agency’s mailing list for potential suitable roles.
This morning, among the several vacancies which hit my email inbox was a part-time role as a mystery shopper. A job where you test a retail outlets employees customer service wherewithal by working undercover as a store customer.
Although I am unlikely to pursue a career in this field, I mischievously concluded taking such a role could be quite fun. Especially if you defeated the object of the clandestine element of the task by, when walking around the store in question, wearing a t-shirt with the words ‘Mystery Shopper’ emblazoned across the garments front and back.
Clearly, such idiocy would mean I wouldn’t remain employed very long in this role, but such tomfoolery does seem highly appealing.
Anyhow, I have now written in excess of 900 words, and I have an errand to run, so I’ll bid you farewell… Judging by that word count, perhaps I wasn’t a creatively impotent as suggested earlier.
