To remain young while growing old is the highest blessing.

Today we took my MiL to an antique and collectibles fair in the Quaint Historic Market Town where we used to live.  I love antique fairs, but we haven’t been to one for yonks.  I love oo-ing and ahh-ing at all the gorgeous junk that these places thrust into my line of vision. 

There can be something quite magical about wandering around immersing yourself in the history of other folk.  Once upon a time a child played with that doll, and a woman powdered her nose whilst sitting on a train with that compact, and some elderly chap lovingly wound up that grandfather clock … and oooh, nana had that tea set and look how much they’re selling it for! 

There are two items that I particularly look for whilst poking around stalls, shying away from talkative stall-holders [who tend to be late middle-aged women with a passion for not letting you get away] and getting narked when the talkative stall-holders are talking to other folk and ignoring me.  Firstly I look for perfume/scent bottles that are reasonably priced, and secondly I’m always on the lookout for children’s books. 

Today there were no children’s books.  But!  There were four perfume/scent bottles that were not ridiculously priced. 

So I bought them.  And now my collection stands at around the fifty mark.  Not bad. 

Of course, having spent not very much money on four perfume/scent bottles it was only fair that we bought something that cost copious amounts of cash [well, £150, which is copious amounts if you’re not used to spending that much in one go], something that we had no intention of buying, and didn’t really need.  And ok, so it’s something that’s not in tippity-toppity condition, but that just adds character.   And it’s cute.  And yummy. 

And being a Victorian pine chest of drawers [with central mother of pearl decoration on the handles, just so you know] it will go beautifully with all our modern [mainly-] IKEA furniture.  Huzzah!  

I know I’m getting old because it excites me muchly.  Even the thought of getting my new carpet washer thingy excites me muchly.  If The Blokey hadn’t agreed to buy me one [because my carpets really do need a bloody good shampoo] when I kept whinging at him to do so, I think I may very well have asked for one for Christmas.  And that’s a sure sign that I’m getting old.


Now I feel the need to go and do something young and exciting in order to balance myself out a bit.  I think I might start by opening a bottle of wine …

please God bless the [probably dead] woman who previously owned that delightful 1920s scent bottle, made to look like a lipstick, which is very yummy and nice xxx Elsabeth

The Loo Xlog.

Despite being a town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields and full of inbreds with webbed feet, FlatHickTown does have some redeeming features.  One of these features is the public toilets, of which there are two lots, a matter of five minutes walk apart.  This is greedy for such a small town with so few shops.  When we were in the process of buying the house I brought Mumsy here and she was amazed at how sparkling clean and delightfully non-ravaged by pen and rude words the toilets were.  Actually I am rather proud of my town.  Graffiti gets cleaned up almost immediately, lots of flowers are allowed to bloom, and we have our own Town Sweep who starts work very early in the morning.  We even have our own Town Drunk, but that’s another post – as is the one about the Town Down And Out Who Is Probably Really A Secret Millionaire.

ChavTown, supposedly ashamed of its status as one of the worst towns in England [it must be true, it’s in a book], is doing itself up.  Gone are the town centre buildings that make it look dowdy, and we all now worship at the running-water fountain whilst gazing wistfully at the technology that is yet to be vandalised, sitting smugly in the street [no doubt the locals have yet to work out what it actually is – although this is unfair since this week it was discovered that ChavTown is full of literate folk].     

However, ChavTown has forgotten about its bus station.  ChavTown’s bus station is the pits.  The first thing that strikes you as you stumble upon the place is the smell; it stinks of wee.  And the next thing that strikes you?  How dirty it seems.  It has an air of dirt surrounding it.  Maybe it’s just because it’s so near one of the worst roads in England, maybe it’s just the fact that it’s used as an outside loo by drunken teenagers at three in the morning, or maybe it’s just because it really is dirty. 

Sometimes I have this uncontrollable urge to use the loo at the bus station.  I have a long bus journey [almost an hour] so going to the loo first is sometimes something that must be done.  Today was one of those occasions and I was delighted to read that this toilet has bin fucked in lmfa x on the back of the door.  This did nothing but raise questions in my head.  Was it the bin that fucked in the toilet?  Did they actually fuck in the toilet or just fuck in the toilet cubicle?  Laughing my fat arse what?  Off?  Did she laugh her fat arse off while fucking in the toilet?  Did she actually have a fat arse?  Oh my God, why on earth would anyone want to fuck in that smelly cubicle?  Why put a kiss?  Eugh, why am I sitting on a toilet that some slag has fucked in/on/at/with?  If she’s old enough to fuck isn’t she old enough to spell properly?  Why do young people these days insist on using such dreadful language? 

And then the damn toilet wouldn’t flush …

So, that was the highlight of my day.  Excitement, eh? 

please God bless the toilets xxx Elsabeth