Mr P and the F-I-L went to see Bob Dylan in Nottingham on Friday night whilst I stayed home with the whippet watching trashy TV with a bottle of wine and a surprisingly tasty ready meal. I waited up for Mr P who arrived home just before midnight after a quick nightcap at his dad’s. Unfortunately, Bob Dylan turned out to be a disappointment. He only played three songs that Mr P and the F-I-L knew and even then they were so different as to be almost unrecognisable. The rest of the set was apparently made up of fifties swing standards. On the up side, the band itself was fantastic, Bob’s voice is still powerful and, you know, they got to see a living legend live in a venue just down the road so it wasn’t a total bust.
Saturday was grim, weather-wise, so Mr P tackled the garden and I cleaned the house (rock ‘n’ fuckin’ roll) before nipping out for a quick drink and then deciding to invite mum and the F-I-L round for a spur-of-the-moment drinks and nibbles party. It was okay but Mr P was a bit snappy with me (I think he’s still a bit run down and probably suffering somewhat from the old-fashioneds he knocked back the night before) and the F-I-L seemed a bit bored. I understand that once mum and I are together that we do go on a bit but I’m not apologising for that. I hardly get to spend any one-on-one time with my mum so I’m definitely going to make the most of it when I do. I know I sound like a bitchy daughter-in-law and that obviously we’re spending a lot of time with the F-I-L – hell, the M-I-L hasn’t been dead a year yet and he doesn’t really have friends as such – but if he considers mum and I to be frivolous / cackling / gossipy (which I don’t deny) then he’s welcome to stay at home. Maybe it would be a good idea for me to decrease the amount of time I spend with the F-I-L, especially as we’re going to be cooped up together for five days at the end of the month when we visit Newquay.
On Sunday, Mr P and I decided to walk to a pub in a neighbouring village. It’s a good trek and took about two hours but it’s a pretty walk as well and the pub itself is just lovely. In fact, I think we might celebrate our anniversary there. The outdoor seating area is so pretty and if the weather turns out to be bad in August, the interior is just as nice. It’s dimly-lit despite the spring sunshine outside which automatically leads to an intimate, romantic atmosphere.
On my way to work this morning, I passed a man I’ve often seen at that time in the morning. He must be in his seventies, rotund but dapper in a navy blue double-breasted blazer. The hair he has left is white and slicked back and he wears a large gold earring, like a pirate who found his buried treasure and decided to retire from life on the high seas to luxuriate in something a bit more sumptuous instead. He complimented me on my “beautiful walk” which he said was “very upright” before apologising, saying that he “wasn’t being rude”. I wasn’t offended in the slightest nor did I feel uncomfortable or that I was being chatted up by a dirty old man. Instead, I thanked him because in all honesty, to be complimented on one’s walk is rather nice and I continued onto work with a definite new spring in my already “beautiful” step.