Books. Obviously I don’t mean more books. I mean time to sit down with books and read. Something to soothe a whirling witch’s brain. (That’s whirling brain. Not whirling witch.)
And tea. Not last thing, because then the witch’s brain really does whirl.
I like this pile of books with the cup on top. I have a cup just like it. Six, in actual fact. It’s a 1960s collectible and I keep it safe(ish) somewhere far away. So the tea will have to appear in something else. And my books aren’t quite as prettily pastel coloured, but their contents will be just lovely.
I’ve had a couple of intense days, and I could really do with some books and tea and nothing.
You already know I get a lot of books. So does the postman, because he carries them here, and he needs to ring the doorbell to hand over all those packets too fat for the letterbox.
One day recently, I was upstairs, working. I heard the postman arrive, but he didn’t ring, so I remained where I was. Silly me.
There was some thumping, but I imagined things were under control. Silly me.
I forgot all about it, until lunch or some other mundane reason propelled me downstairs. I looked at the hall floor, where the postal offerings were spread out. Something didn’t look quite right.
Oh yeah, there was a very crumpled jiffy bag. More like an inside-out jiffy. On the other side of the hall lay a book. Fairly thick hardback, it was. It had been ‘undressed.’
As with so many other odd things, you couldn’t expect to achieve this kind of result if you tried. But many weird things happen by accident. (The Grandmother regularly persuades jigsaw pieces to jump into her cardigan pockets.)
So, the postman unpacked my post for me. All that remained was to bin the jiffy bag and to put the book somewhere safe.
It was a Thursday, so not one of my usual postmen. That’s probably why he assumed I was out (with no car on the drive, how could there possibly be a human inside the house?) and didn’t try knocking or ringing.