And then…

Well, this is where I was yesterday. You would have had the photos hot off the old mobile phone, were it not for some sort of misunderstanding between it and Windows 10. I am not on the same wavelength as Windows 10 at all, and my mobile phone and I have only a passing acquaintance.

We were at a place called Teapot Island, which is somewhere near Tonbridge – or possibly Tunbridge Wells. I believe it may be called Wateringbury, or possibly Yalding. At any rate, Wateringbury and Yalding are quite close to one another, and fairly close to either Tonbridge or Tunbridge Wells, where we were to spend all afternoon looking for a sparkly dinner dress for a friend, who has been invited to a terrifyingly superior Ladies Night Dinner. On Saturday. We found an evening handbag, in fact two evening handbags, in silver, and some silver shoes, but we didn’t find the silver sparkly hair ornament and we didn’t find The Dress.

Neither did we find The Dress again this morning, when we went down to Ashford. Sore footed and desperate, unable to reach a decision for her, and having exhausted the possibilities of dress shops so wonderful and expensive I had never bothered to set foot in heretofore, I wondered if, as we hobbled along, I should casually retell the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes… Perhaps no one would say anything if…

But then I thought, no. They actually would say something. In fact, quite a lot.

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So – Teapot Island. We went on the minibus, fourteen of us. Unfortunately it had been raining rather torrentially and Yalding – which I seem to recall is The Most Flooded Village in Kent – was at least partially flooded again. Our valiant Driver turned the minibus on a sixpence at every fresh flooded road onto the Island, eventually finding the one and only unsubmerged entrance. Puddles, as you see, and high water levels. Actually, it wasn’t cold, just damp.

And there were a lot of teapots there. More teapots than you could possibly imagine ever having existed in the entire world. Little café – we had some coffee. I had a blueberry muffin.

I wish I was interested in teapots, and I wish it hadn’t been quite so damp underfoot, but it was a welcome change of scene.

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I don’t think you actually use these teapots. I think you buy them from somewhere between £35 and £100, and put them on your mantelpiece and dust them, or in a display cabinet if you can’t face dusting them.

And then we went sparkly dress hunting, and had chips in a Witherspoons, or possibly a Weatherspoons, which used to be an opera house, and which still holds an opera, with a proper opera company and everything, once a year.

And then we hunted sparkly dresses some more – me, my friend, her friend and the Driver, who turned out to be an unexpected expert on ladies’ clothes shopping, bra sizes, colourways and whatever. And then the Driver bought us all an ice cream in a box from a small supermarket, and when we turned round he had vanished.

And then a poor woman came up to us whose poor dog had just been run over in Australia. She was here for a three month holiday, and had just had an anguished text from her daughter, who presumably had been looking after the dog. And so she sat, or actually collapsed down next to us and tried not to cry, and said she just wanted to sit quietly with some ladies for a couple of minutes. And I gave her an awkward kind of pat on the back, trying not to experience second-hand the full horror of learning that your dog has been run over on the other side of the world, and lent her my mobile phone so she could phone her husband, who was meant to have been picking her up at the station, but hadn’t.

Women’s lives are full of tragedy, and these tragedies are so hard to bear. Other women’s and one’s own, they bite with equal ferocity. And then she stood up, still trying not to look as if she was crying, and went off to meet her husband.

And we began exploring even charity shops in (in my opinion) the completely futile hope of finding lurking in some dark corner undiscovered an almost new, sparkly, not too long and not too darkly coloured dress in an unusual size suitable for wearing to a sit-down knife-and-fork dinner with swanky gifts for the ladies etc. And instead people tried to sell us old books and record players, dusty militaria and whatever they most wanted to get rid of.

And eventually we tottered back to the bus, parked in a side road (Newton Road – “remember a man in a wig with an apple about to fall on his head”) where the Driver was reading his newspaper and people were arguing about seat-belts and the seats being so hard they made your bum go to sleep after less than half an hour.

And eventually we went home.

Unexpected Rainbows

Sometimes life throws you an unexpected bonus or – if things have really been bad –  a consolation. For example, the other day I had to wait an hour at the hospital for a blood test, and the buses home only go once an hour. I sat with my torn-off paper ticket (number 106 in a queue starting at 85) and I sat, and I sat, and finally I got behind that blue curtain to get my blood test, one minute after the bus was due to have left. I trudged to the hospital bus stop and found nobody waiting. Yes, my bus had definitely gone. And then there it was, like magic, my precious bus coming round the corner, two minutes late. Did you just do me a good turn? I asked the universe.

And today I have rainbows. I put some sheeting stuff up at the kitchen windows – it’s clear, textured plastic, held up by nothing more than warm water and washing up liquid, plus suction. The reviews on Amazon did mention rainbows but I hadn’t seen any. Ah well, I thought, I am now invisible to the neighbours and vice versa, and that’s all that matters. Privacy is restored.

I have this thing, you see, about eyes. It feels as if I am caught in the headlights when someone stares at me, and particularly if they persistently stare at me. I read somewhere that in the 17th century and earlier, people did not yet understand about light and vision (I believe it was Newton who eventually sorted it out) and actually believed that people ‘saw’ by sending out an invisible beam from their eyes. In other words, their eyes were sending out light rather than receiving it. John Donne uses this to good effect in his erotic poem The Ecstasy:

Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread / Our eyes upon one double string…

Anyway, although I am a Thoroughly Modern Post-Newtonian Person and know that nobody is actually fixing me with their X-ray eye-beams, that’s what it feels like. In some sort of psychic or psychological way, it hurts. And similarly, if I am forced to stare at someone or even see them when I don’t want to, it hurts. Without intending to they are invading me, and the space around me, just by being in my line of sight.

So, given this weirdness, which seems to be  one of two absolutely fundamental and incurable issues with me – boundaries and visibility – I more-or-less solved the problem by buying two rolls of the plastic stuff on Amazon. And today, finally, the sun shone brightly enough through my kitchen window to create those promised rainbows.

Sorry it’s cats again – and sorry for apologising since I know from previous feedback that this is British of me – but sorry, anyway – but cats is what I have a lot of and cats are what I spend most of my day either feeding, tripping over or being sat-upon by. I just saw these rainbows on the cats – and on the floor – and decided I must try to capture them – for posterity – for this electronic treasure trove of ours – and for – not having to wash up a whole sink load of cat dishes for at least another five minutes. So much more fun to tiddle about with photographs.

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Plastic rainbows on my grubby kitchen floor (hence the vignette filter causing a convenient Darkness on the Edge of… um, the floor tile)

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Henry in his basket, bedecked with rainbows. Suspect he cannot see them, as I read somewhere that cats can only see in shades of blue and lilac. This seems like a terrible disability, if it’s true, but it doesn’t seem to stop them catching mice.

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 Henry – more rainbows.

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Martha -no rainbows, because being a tortoiseshell (calico) she carries one around with her.

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Rosie – no rainbows, just because I love her, and she’s getting on a bit now. Rosie was rescued from a road in Norfolk as a tiny, sick, dehydrated kitten and brought to me on a hot summer’s day, in a cardboard box with no proper air-holes, all the way round the M25 and beyond. She is the inspiration behind my blogging name: Rosie2009 and the reason for much subsequent confusion.