So, it turns out that there’s nothing wrong with my washing machine, and I should probably start checking my shirt pockets for ‘emergency tea bags’ from now on.
It’s a bank holiday today and I’ve been sneezing my way through the pile of washing in (and, let’s be honest, out of) the laundry basket. And I do mean sneezing; hay fever’s bad today. My nose is itchy and twitchy, and occasionally explosive.
So, as a treat (and to find some antihistamine nostril spray) I have taken myself to Waitrose for soup and a middle-class mingle. I’m not sure whether this is what you’re supposed to do on a bank holiday, but this is where I am, hiding from the pollen.
It’s my own fault for sitting out in the park last night, I suppose.
I had to though: the clouds were flashing and the sky looked like a Turner painting. I can’t ignore that kind of drama. I sat there for an hour, watching lightning silently leap between the clouds over the Chilterns and South Oxfordshire. No thunder, too far away; just the noiseless streaks of jagged brilliant white in the electric sky.
The park was empty. Just me, the summer wind, the whispering grass, and the silent lightning. I should have taken a flask of tea.
Who in the world carries ‘emergency’ tea bags? What kind of emergency was I expecting to solve by whipping out a tea bag from a shirt pocket? And where would I be that there would be piping hot water... but also no access to tea? This is England, after all.
I hope that shirt gets clean in the next wash.
No comments:
Post a Comment