I was going to blog yesterday because yesterday was the birthday of this lady...
She is Stella Gibbons, and the literature buffs amongst you will know her for writing ‘Cold Comfort Farm’ which is one of the THE best novels EVER! Stella Gibbons is my favourite writer. She is clever, witty, ever so good with satire, observant, a grafter of industrious proportions, and a writing crafter of excellent standard, and I adore her. I especially like this photo of her because she has a proper telephone, a sewing basket near by and is wearing a pair of slippers pretty much identical to a pair worn by my maternal grandmother. She also has a look on her face which says, ‘I wish whoever put that coffee table there would put it back where it belongs, because I know I’m going to crack my shin on it AGAIN if it stays there.’
Stella Gibbons died in 1989. But it was her birthday yesterday. So Happy Birthday, ma’am, and thank you for writing 22 novels and keeping me madly happy with reading them! If I was a writer, I’d be honoured to be half as talented as you are.
In other news: yesterday Damson Cottage received a letter from a local Jehovah’s Witness representative called Sheila. Sheila conveyed apologies for not being able to visit personally in these difficult times, and hoped that my family and I were keeping well. And that if there was anything she or the Jehovah’s Witnesses could help with in these difficult times (religiously, of course. There was no offer to collect prescriptions or do a spot of weeding) then please would I phone her, and she printed her number at the bottom of the letter.
I was grateful that Sheila hadn’t called personally because the road we live on is shocking for pedestrians. I checked that no one in the household required religious sustenance, and then I consigned the letter and envelope to the fire lighting materials basket (waste not, want not) but not before removing the stamp and adding it to my envelope of stamps that I am saving to send to the Hedgehog Preservation Society who collect them for charitable purposes. Hedgehogs like a stamp, apparently. They use them in art projects.
Tootsie the Confused Cockerel has discovered the wild bird feeding station outside the big kitchen window. My plan is to lay a trail of sunflower seeds and fat balls oddments for him down the driveway and towards the aforesaid shocking road...
I’ve added a LARGE eiderdown to the bed. It hangs to the floor on three sides. Bambino has taken to hiding under the bed, secreted by the eiderdown, and galloping out at me whenever I pass by. I keep telling him that he is running the risk of having his head kicked in if he persists in this element of surprise, because of my woman-on-the-edge Ninja skills, but will he listen?
I’ve been writing letters recently, and have discovered that my lovely posh metal pen makes my fingers go white with cold when I hold it for any length of time. This is not good. It is painful, too. I have taken to wearing fingerless mittens when I letter write. I am turning into Mrs Scrooge.
Three of my lost pounds have reappeared over Christmas. Any day now I’m going to do something about sending them back.
The snowdrops and daffodils are emerging.
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