We have a talking telephone at home. By that I mean it tells us who is calling, which is why I never answer the phone when you call… And until the Resident IT Consultant reprogrammes the phone, we will keep being told that it is Aunt Scarborough calling, when in fact it is Aunt Ochiltree. (Not only did she move into her flat, but she kept the phone number.)
A couple of weeks ago, just as Gibbs was going to hug DiNozzo (the Resident IT Consultant was out, so I was watching the last episode of NCIS a second time) the phone rang. It was ‘unavailable’ who called.
Now, usually that means it’s a nuisance call, but occasionally it’s one of our own, proper foreigners, so I tend to answer. There was a hesitant ‘hello’ at the other end, and I waited for whoever it was to say more. He didn’t sound like the usual call centre sales person/swindler.
He went on to say where he was calling from, at which point I told him who he was calling, because he didn’t actually know.
I’d called my Swedish optician earlier that morning to make an appointment, but got the answer phone, which happens often as he works alone. I was intending to call back later, as you can’t leave a message.
But the poor man had been so excited to find a UK code that he simply had to phone back to see if it might have been me. And it was me. So we had a little chat, and I made my appointment.
And I put it in my diary, which I then didn’t take with me… Reminds me of the time I went to see him and discovered he’d moved shop, and I had no idea where I was supposed to be going.
I need a wife.
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It was quite satisfying to stray from the books on Tuesday. I think I’ll do it again.
After all, it’s not every week that not only has your favourite singer turn 80, but your favourite television show clocks up 300 episodes. In other words, I have watched NCIS since well before I became your favourite Bookwitch. And as with Roger Whittaker, I blogged about my love in the Guardian. That time it was because I got furious over the offhand way their television reviewer mentioned the start of, I think, the 4th season. No one seemed to watch it, and it was OK to mock.
Now, NCIS is the most watched show in America. Last week the 300th episode aired, and it was a good one. They were a bit shaky last year, but that’s how it is with ‘family’ and you love them for better and for worse. We’ve had a very good run recently and I’m thinking the show could survive the planned departure of of one of the original characters. Just don’t kill him!
(I wouldn’t read too much into the fact that both photos – © CBS – are from Autopsy…)
We went down to the beach for a final swim yesterday. (It wouldn’t surprise me if the Resident IT Consultant pops down this morning as well, but I will be far too busy refuelling the broom and packing my books. And stuff.)
The sea was mirror calm, which is not natural at that time of day. Later, in the evening, yes. But it looked great; smooth, pale grey water meeting pale grey sky.
The water was clear. So clear I could see the tiny plaice scuttling out of my way, hopefully to a safer place. (That’s because I wear glasses, even in the sea. Without them I’d see nothing.)
Which, I suppose, might have been a good thing. I’m used to topless. After all, this is Sweden. Not quite so used to people wearing nothing, like the woman sunbathing a few metres away. But thank god for books! She had a book. A very strategically placed book.
(It made me think of an early episode of NCIS, where a witness mentions her concern over tan lines. Like Agent DiNozzo, I don’t spend much time thinking about tan lines, however.)
I don’t like the word bathe. But if the sea is involved, it is better than bath. One year we went out for a walk immediately on arriving. Met people we knew, who wanted to know if we’d had a bath yet. It took everything I had not to reply that I generally have a shower. Because I knew what they meant; had we been in the sea yet?
As for this year, I’ve had my last bathe, unless a miracle interferes with my plans. Actually, I don’t have time for miracles.
More or less, anyway. The morning will be spent sorting out desserts (because they matter) and putting vegetables in the oven. The rest was done days ago.
Our other main day for Christmas was yesterday, and it went well, despite – or possibly because of – lack of presents. The Resident IT Consultant went into town to pick up a pair of Cats, free of charge, which rather trumped Son’s 20% off his Clarks. So they count as almost presents. He also treated himself to a remaindered Historical Atlas, and has happily browsed through history.
Daughter went along to watch over the Cats, and managed to find a Quiz book to buy. Because we just didn’t have VERY MANY books in the house before!!
Anyway, her quiz book provided us with our Christmas Eve entertainment as we competed against each other to see who knew the least about whichever topic came up.
To keep us company over the evening grazing, Son found us an Ealing comedy about trains. And then he wanted to watch Due South, and with all of us at different points in its viewing history, we needed a ‘used’ episode. I can thoroughly recommend All the Queen’s Horses, and not just because it’s the craziest episode. It felt pretty Christmassy, what with the snow and the trains and those red Mountie uniforms. The horses. And the singing! ‘Gonna riiiiide, foreeever..!’
The Resident IT Consultant helped to finish the evening in style, as he’d missed last week’s Christmas episode of NCIS, and Son had been too busy to watch, which meant I got to watch it again. It was Santa who did it.