After a day that I assumed meant spring had sprung and caused me to surf very.com for a new, lightweight spring blazer and some warm-weather, chunky work sandals and which also caused me to stumble perfectly on the most gorgeous, cerise barely-there’s with bows on the back which were simply too beautiful to remain unpurchased, the temperature inevitably dropped again and the rain set in. Really, being British, I should be used to the unpredictable weather. Still, it was bad enough to make Mr P and I decide to swerve Mr and Mrs D’s wedding reception; that and the fact that the invitation was actually third hand via mum and The Redhead Sister and that we both felt a bit awkward about attending anyway. It means that I will have to save my new pink skirt for next week when I take mum out for lunch for Mother’s Day.
We popped to the posh pub for a quick drink en route to the Local and bumped into Big P who informed us that the Local was dead so we decided to just head home for salmon, red wime and the iPlayer instead which was perfectly pleasant.
Today at the library, my old primary school teacher came in. It’s always weird to see him as I never liked him at school although he always seemed fond of me. Once on my birthday, probably my tenth), he picked me up and put me on his desk whilst the other kids sang Happy Birthday to me. Humiliating and something I’m pretty sure teachers wouldn’t be allowed to do these days. In fact, Mrs W told me that she wasn’t even allowed to comfort crying children physically, and she teaches four-year-olds. Anyway, he delighted in telling a woman he was with that I was his ‘star pupil’ and that due to my writing talent, he told me that I should do something to do with books (pretty sure he didn’t, FYI) as if me working at the library was all down to him, never mind the fact that it’s a voluntary job and not the main role I undertake anyway. Then of course came the inevitable blush which I imagine made him think, in his egocentric world, that hey, he hadn’t lost that old charm yet.
I hate being a ‘blusher’ especially at the age of thirty-three. I even blush sometimes at work, even though I’ve been there for thirteen years, and it’s usually only when one of the male GPs speaks to me which then makes me fear that they must think I fancy them which in turn embarrasses me even further and I therefore get hotter and pinker, probably matching the shade of my brand new dream shoes. I fear this affliction is something that will stay with me though; mum still blushes and she’s sixty. Ugh.