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Edwardian ladies had much smaller fingers than me. I don’t have particularly fat fingers, but I do have chunky knuckles. They’re the sort that are better at giving a good punch than looking elegant. In fact, a psychic once told me: “Of course, you know you will suffer from arthritis when you’re older?” “Can you tell that from reading my palm?” I asked. “No,” she said, “I can tell because you’ve got big knuckles.”
I know this, but I have felt myself utterly compelled to bid on eBay for an Edwardian amethyst ring that I am unlikely to be able to force on to my finger. It’s just so beautiful and purple and old. There are a good few days left to run on the auction so it’s likely that I’ll be outbid (I know my limit and I stick to it). But however irrational, I really really want it.
My left hand is currently missing having its own ring. The last one – a gorgeous green amber and silver jobbie I called my dragon’s eye – was caught on the arena fence once when the Grey Mare and I parted company. I needed a hammer and plenty of patience to remove it from my finger. Prior to that, I had a square honey-coloured amber ring, which sadly snapped. The space is now waiting to be filled.
I wonder who the Edwardian lady was that owned the amethyst beauty? I wonder if she treasured it and wore it every day? I wonder if she’s left any of her aura on it? Sadly, I know for certain that she had smaller fingers than me.
I am not a member of the iPod generation. I like my music to be more touchable and tangible; I like CDs, I like cassettes, I like vinyl. I have music in abundance in all of these mediums.
The fact that ‘virtual’ music on a computer can just disappear when the mood takes it was graphically illustrated to me when my computer died and had to be resurrected a few months ago. But it’s more than that: I like to look at album sleeves, read the notes and see the case sitting on the shelf along with its compatriots. I like the smell of vinyl records. I like the car compilation tapes I have made over the years.
I bought three albums on eBay over the weekend for miniscule amounts to replace some rather ropey tapes that are near the end of their useful lives and would probably – in their wisdom – allow themselves to be eaten by the stereo. But the problem with Internet shopping is that you don’t receive immediate gratification. I can understand why downloading tunes appeals in this context, but I want CDs with cases.
What we need is someone clever to invent a transforming machine, where the seller could load the item in at their end, and send it through the ether to the recipient’s machine. Something like the Flue Powder or Portkeys utilised by Harry Potter. If I’m not mistaken, the Americans have secretly been able to do something of this sort for decades ….
I am a great believer in complaining. If people did not complain about injustices, nothing would ever change. Just look at the Suffragettes. I like to think I would have been a Suffragette.
I am not known for ‘buttoning my lip’. I could complain for England and am the Queen of the letter of complaint. I endeavour to make people quiver with fear from afar by my use of English.
In the past couple of days, I have had reason to complain three times. The first was when I was overcharged for an item in Asda. I am generally not a fan of supermarkets and the way they conduct their business but Asda acquitted itself with aplomb. Not only did I receive an immediate refund but also a £2 gift card for my trouble. Of course, I told everyone about this and am now writing about it. Someone at Asda knows the secret of good PR.
Ten days ago, I bought an item on eBay for the grey mare. It finally arrived yesterday. The wait had me hopping up and down with displeasure (I had paid immediately via PayPal). Far from the advertised ‘excellent condition’, the leatherwork was cracked and smelt as if it had been stored in a damp, mouldy shed. I fired off an obstreperous email and the item is winging its way back from whence it came.
The final issue is the one that concerns me the most. I have contacted the ILPH to report a cob tethered with no water beside a busy dual carriageway near an A1 underpass. I believe tethering horses should be banned full stop. The Government had its chance to do so in the new Animal Welfare Act but didn’t. I have seen a black horse with white hair covering the scar tissue on its face, where its skin had grown over the too-tight headcollar it had been tethered in.My mum used to tell me my mouth would get me into trouble. I hope on this occasion, it gets that horse out of trouble.
Edwardian ladies had much smaller fingers than me. I don’t have particularly fat fingers, but I do have chunky knuckles. They’re the sort that are better at giving a good punch than looking elegant. In fact, a psychic once told me: “Of course, you know you will suffer from arthritis when you’re older?” “Can you tell that from reading my palm?” I asked. “No,” she said, “I can tell because you’ve got big knuckles.”
