Dear Diary, the little fish, Greensmith and Redshaw, are settled in their new home. Their lives appear extremely boring as they swim around in circles all day. They play hide and seek amongst the tall grassy looking plants, and Greensmith hid from Redshaw behind a large boulder that Niece plonked down hard to anchor the roots of the plants.
There is one downside to this ... the aquarium needs emptying every week or so, as I have been informed. I do consider that a gift that needs regular work to keep it in wholesome order a trifle tedious. Perhaps Niece will take on that task. I really do not have a head for emptying aquariums at all. I might spill the dirty water all over the carpet! [Now that might be a worthwhile exercise.]
Harold is coming around later this afternoon. I know I was all upset about him earlier in the week, but a few shed tears, a wallow in the long distant past, and a little mollycoddling from Niece all contrived to make me feel a happier person.
So Dear Diary, what am I to wear for this excursion to the library? Do I dress to suit my age, or do I don a bright rag to show the world that today is a wonderful day? Silly question really! Bright! Colourful! That is the way to go. In the back of my rather extensive wardrobe I have a pair of cream slacks [ladies wear slacks ... how dreadfully masculine is that word 'trousers'; makes me think of black pinstripe, bankers, white shirts and the old school tie, and shoes polished and shined until it is possible to view the colour of the wearer's socks in their reflection ... the colour of socks is invariably boring black. Funny isn't it how we don't see pinstripe socks?] The cream slacks would go so well with a soft apricot-coloured top that drapes well to hide, what magazines cutely call, the middle-aged spread, and truth be told I am not adverse to the classification of middle age. This all teamed with cream sandals, with the back in, as my feet do need the attention of the podiatrist.
I will forgo the bright nail polish on fingers and toes; there is no need to frighten Harold too much. Perhaps a wide brimmed straw hat? I must ask Niece if I can borrow her bunch of pretty apricot artificial flowers that she has on a thing she calls a fascinator, which is little more than a bunch of flowers stuck onto some tulle. The flowers and perhaps a velvet ribbon would complete the picture.
Dear Diary, I hear Harold at the door, must fly before Niece drags him into the kitchen for a cuppa and a chat ... and more nosey questions! He can come up to my room and view Greensmith and Redshaw while I dab a little Evening in Paris behind my lobes.
Harold is coming around later this afternoon. I know I was all upset about him earlier in the week, but a few shed tears, a wallow in the long distant past, and a little mollycoddling from Niece all contrived to make me feel a happier person.
So Dear Diary, what am I to wear for this excursion to the library? Do I dress to suit my age, or do I don a bright rag to show the world that today is a wonderful day? Silly question really! Bright! Colourful! That is the way to go. In the back of my rather extensive wardrobe I have a pair of cream slacks [ladies wear slacks ... how dreadfully masculine is that word 'trousers'; makes me think of black pinstripe, bankers, white shirts and the old school tie, and shoes polished and shined until it is possible to view the colour of the wearer's socks in their reflection ... the colour of socks is invariably boring black. Funny isn't it how we don't see pinstripe socks?] The cream slacks would go so well with a soft apricot-coloured top that drapes well to hide, what magazines cutely call, the middle-aged spread, and truth be told I am not adverse to the classification of middle age. This all teamed with cream sandals, with the back in, as my feet do need the attention of the podiatrist.
I will forgo the bright nail polish on fingers and toes; there is no need to frighten Harold too much. Perhaps a wide brimmed straw hat? I must ask Niece if I can borrow her bunch of pretty apricot artificial flowers that she has on a thing she calls a fascinator, which is little more than a bunch of flowers stuck onto some tulle. The flowers and perhaps a velvet ribbon would complete the picture.
Dear Diary, I hear Harold at the door, must fly before Niece drags him into the kitchen for a cuppa and a chat ... and more nosey questions! He can come up to my room and view Greensmith and Redshaw while I dab a little Evening in Paris behind my lobes.
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