Our home is spotless at the best of times. Mrs C would sooner slice off her legs with a rusty spoon than leave a cobweb dangling free. Even so, there’s nothing like the prospect of a visitor to have her flying round the rooms like a robin on speed. She’s gone through three dusters since breakfast-time and the house reeks of polish.
No surface has been left untouched. At lunch, I rested an arm on the table for a moment, and slid facedown into a Waldorf salad. We have timber floors throughout the house; I’m giving all the rugs a wide berth just now, for fear of hurtling across the room and out through an open window.
Bernard arrives tomorrow evening. I spoke to him on the telephone this morning. He was breathless with excitement. Or possibly he was just breathless. With Bernard one can’t always be sure. He’s a little on the large side, takes no exercise to speak of, and likes a small whisky in the afternoon. On a bad day, getting out of bed tests his body to the limit.
Mrs C worries about him and is determined he’ll have a good time. Not, I suspect, as good as the time his wife, Norma will have while he’s away.
I don’t say this to the current Mrs C, of course. As I’ve mentioned before, she dotes on the old boy, and at my age it’s foolish to take unnecessary risks.
Meanwhile, the London Olympics begin tomorrow. As the following cutting reminds us:
(Click on above image to enlarge)
Thought for the Day
‘Someone has finally found the perfect job for David Beckham at the London Olympics. He’s been appointed chief javelin catcher.’