Took lots of buses while I was down south. I had hoped to be able to use my Scottish bus pass there, but no luck; I ended up spending a huge (for me) amount on bus fares, which severely curtailed my plans to get around and say hallo to everybody. (And the buses was probably where I picked up the lurgy .) But at least I got to play my favourite sport of people-watching.
For example, on a Chorley bus, I was greatly entertained by Anorak Girl. A schoolgirl, aged about thirteen, on the top deck with her mates, she came hurtling down the stairs howling and in tears; hurling herself into a corner seat, she curled up, flung her anorak over her head and continued her weeping. I was feeling quite sorry for her until she went and spoiled the effect by lifting up a corner of her anorak to see if anybody was watching, before ducking back into hiding. Two minutes later, another schoolgirl came downstairs, looking around for her; I caught her eye and silently pointed to the still-sobbing heap of anorak; she nodded wearily and went back upstairs. Another two minutes, and Anorak Girl suddenly decided she’d had enough of being dramatic, flung off the anorak and went back upstairs; shortly thereafter, rowdy singing, shrieking and gales of laughter percolated down from the upper deck. A little while later, Anorak Girl and her friends came down and got off the bus; she was smiling cheerfully and wearing her anorak back to front.

….I really do have to get myself organised. I need to keep three websites regularly updated, and I’m falling behind with that; last week I bought myself a WordPress theme design book so that I can improve my web design skills, but I’ve not even looked at it yet; I’m trying to figure out how to get the Elfin Diary online shop working – I suspect may have to switch to another ecommerce program, and that will take time to learn.
And so on. Then there’s all the daily keep-the-household-running stuff to get done – with B not up to doing anything that involves exertion, I’m doing the heavy lifting and a lot of the running around and fetching stuff, on top of the usual housework. Then there’s the books to get through. I have three books that I really should read – I’m slowly getting through one, but the other two (which I nagged the library for months to get me) have remained virginal. I don’t seem to have much time to read anymore.
At the end of each day, I seem to have done a lot, but there’s lots left undone – leaving me with a nagging sense that I should be working harder and footling around on the internet a lot less…..

B is still waiting to hear from the hospital about his op – it’s been over a week now, and it was supposed to be fairly urgent. We’ve had a new postie for the last couple of weeks and he’s not been terribly competent so far, delivering the wrong mail all over the village. We’re due two or three other pieces of post that haven’t arrived yet; I can only hope that B’s hospital letter hasn’t gone walkabout.
It’s fairly silly that hospitals are still sending out appointments and letters by snailmail – there should be the option of getting these things by email as well, precisely to avoid these lost-in-transit situations. Even white-haired old grannies like me know how to use email!
Which reminds me – one of the few bits of post that have arrived is my pensioners’ bus pass. Though I don’t know how much use I will be able to get out of it – the council has already started cutting bus services in the county. But hey ho….

So today me & B went off to Glasgow to get our month’s supply of recycled veg cooking oil that fuels our car. Our supplier, Dave, has just moved to to a new place, a rented house on a scheme.
Driving around the place was a reminder of one of the many reasons we have retired to the ruralities – although the majority of the houses looked well-kept with tidy gardens, there were far too many boarded-up houses and overgrown and rubbish-strewn gardens. And the few people around looked like a Daily Mail reader’s worst nightmares – very young women in cheap clothes and too much makeup pushing buggies, sunken-faced young men with tattoos nursing tinnies. But this was the afternoon, I told myself; the people who kept their gardens tidy and their steps washed – and there must have been some – wouldn’t be hanging around listlessly.
We eventually found Dave’s place, around the back of the one prewar house on the estate. Only a little bigger than the semis surrounding it, it had an impressive stone-clad colonnaded frontage and had evidently been built by a prosperous Victorian gentleman wanting to show off his wealth. Now it was a sad sight, windows and doors boarded up, covered in graffiti. A sign alongside a side entrance indicated that it had been used as some sort of council office until quite recently.
Dave, coming out to greet us, almost immediately pointed at the building. “My grandparents lived there!” he said proudly. Originally, his grandparents had owned much of the land on which the scheme had been built; the house was their farmhouse and was now the sole remnant of what once had been. It had been complete coincidence that Dave had moved to a house only yards away; he had only learnt about it when he had told his Dad where he was moving to. “Things do come around, don’t they!”

While he and B chatted about cars and fuels and engines, I got out and wandered around.
A couple of skinny tabby cats were relaxing on the top of a wheelie bin. I pride myself on being able to speak rudimentary Cat (though no more than “Greetings!”, “I am friendly” and “GERRROFF!!”), so I treated them to my best “Rrrrwwww-owwrnn-nnghhhk?” They immediately leapt towards the safety of their house and stood at their door, looking back at me with narrowed yellow eyes, flicking their tails at the mad human. Perhaps they spoke a different dialect to the cats around my house?
Around the corner was a huge rain-puddle covering most of the road. Two young girls were standing at the edge of it; one was about five, the other a couple of years older and clutching a grubby teddy that was wearing a vile-pink doll’s dress.
“Come on, let’s see how deep it is, I won’t let you get wet…” The older one took the younger one’s hand and the toe of them slowly began to edge out into the water. Ferociously focussed, they slid each foot forward carefully, cautiously, one at a time, making sure the water didn’t rise above the top of their plastic shoes.
All of a sudden, the sun dipped out from behind the clouds. The two girls’ heads were haloed in light and the ripples sparkled around their feet.
I wished, WISHED for a camera, before remembering that people were funny about photographing children in public these days. I shifted position, moved my head; the sun hit my eyes. In front of me were two small figures draped in golden radiance, gliding upon a diamond sea. Where were they travelling to?
I shook my head, rubbed my eyes. the sun went in. A woman called from across the street. The two young water-walkers turned and ran back to their house.

Driving home, we stopped at a chippy; B stayed in the car while I got the food – chips for me, fish and chips for him. Waiting for the order, I studied the people – the girl behind the counter with the Amy Winehouse ‘do, the manager who looked like a bouncer, the woman and her daughter buying pizza, the schoolkids buying sausages and burgers….
And I thought about what I had seen earlier. Was it possible to see these people like that? Was it just a matter of looking the right way? I squinted my eyes, got only the shine of the fluorescents. But the girl with the Winehouse hair was moving like a dancer, and the burly tattooed manager spoke softly and gently and smiled a lot. And the woman let her daughter have most of the pizza. And the schoolkids were happy-noisy and exchanged cracks with the manager….
There’s more than one way of looking……