My Nan used to sing a lot, all sorts of stuff, often only the one line she could remember – and one such line was (to a very lugubrious tune/dirge) “rescue the perishing; care for the dying”. Today, I was the perishing who needed to be rescued, and the perishing cold was brought about by a funeral.
Jonathan consisted of my afternoon jaunt with my wallet back to the pub, where the barman (with whom I may be slightly* acquainted) had cheerfully served me a small scotch at the wake, in order to bring some feeling back into my core, despite my lack of dosh. And that’s the good thing about village life, no-one minded that I bypassed the tea, and no-one even blinked at my walking into the pub in cassock and cloak (they are getting use to me).
However, it struck me afterwards that I have accidentally not imbibed any alcohol throughout January so far (just haven’t got round to having a drink yet) so I cannot now claim to have achieved a dry month.
Bills settled: 1
Late Birthday cards purchased: 1 (sorry, beloved nephew)
Conversations had: many
Core temperature: restored from well below comfortable
Dogs fussed: 2
Inappropriate photos inserted into post: 1 (for some reason I don’t have a photo of a glass of scotch at hand. Most peculiar!)
*I would never dream of asking for credit, but he knows what I drink and where I live!