Bookwitch bites #79

off more than she can chew? Almost.

Within minutes of Aunt Scarborough turning up at the Grandmother’s flat they were both on their knees. Me having barely got up from the bathroom floor a few days earlier, I was certainly not about to join them down there.

They were studying the ants, scurrying to and fro. The Grandmother came home from a short holiday to find the ants had moved in. I arrived on my Scottish book delivery foray soon after and being temporarily unusually sharp-eyed I was able to see where they entered and even where they were heading. The Grandmother forgot her Quaker leanings and murdered a few.

Having developed an inexplicable dislike for staying in halls, I was visiting Daughter by staying with the ants before and after my book delivery rescue mission. That’s a lot of trains in three days. I think I counted four every day.

Apologies for being an anorak, but one of them was the new kind of East Coast rolling stock, on which I had not travelled before. Very nice. That Branson chap can take his Pendolinos and …

Crossing the Tay (twice), all I could think of was Maggie Smith and disaster poems. That bridge appeared to be almost as long as The Bridge. The Spanish tourists behind me seemed nowhere near as interested in the beautiful views of this majestic river, as they were in the gorse they photographed through the train window minutes later. There is no accounting for taste.

Tay Bridge Disaster

A good day was had by both Bookwitch and Daughter, although exhaustion set in, preventing an unannounced pounce type of visit to the Maths department. The cream meringue almost made up for it, however, and perhaps I should not wish to scare people quite so much?

All in all, I would say that it might have been both cheaper and less tiring to have mailed the books.


2 responses to “Bookwitch bites #79

  1. The bridge reminds you of Maggie Smith? Is that because of the “boom” moment, or have I got that completely wrong?

  2. William McGonagall’s poem about the Tay Bridge disaster… Sorry. That’s where we oldies get our McGonagalls from, and then we are so adaptable that we know all about Harry Potter, too.

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