Thursday, August 26, 2010

A Scrapbook

Dear Diary, It seems that once we are part of a family those ties are seldom loosened. Not that I mind that fact, but sometimes it would be rather nice to have a holiday from the rat race that is Home.

Anne assured me she felt much better, that statement belied her limp and the nasty bruise showing blue and yellow on her shin. I insisted she rest for the day. Anne revealed that after my previous visit she had taken photos and had ideas of making a scrapbook to record the wonderful time we shared. I smiled in agreement. This little project could fill in much of the day and wouldn't entail too much movement on Anne's part.

Anne directed me to a large cardboard box, covered with signs signifying its contents had once been the slow cooker that turns out a wonderful curry. Hauling the box out from behind the couch I carefully placed it on the table where we intended to begin our project. [Dear Diary, I found Anne's secret hiding place! The small space between couch and wall is home to other cardboard boxes, several of which are decorated with fabrics and other with brightly coloured paper. Anne does not believe in plastic storage boxes!] A large envelope filled with photos of my previous visit fell to the floor scattering its contents across the carpet. A moment of bending exercise on my part restored them to their rightful packet. I peered into the depths of the box, which revealed a veritable treasure cove. Lovely scrapbooking papers, paints and embellishments; more than enough to create a masterpiece.

As I was a relative new hand to scrapbooking Anne cheerfully acted as tutor. Soon we were engrossed in our work, ideas flowed as we cut and held photos to the card with double-sided tape that had a disconcerting habit of turning on itself at the critical moment. Dear Diary, the difficult part was actually choosing which photos to use. Deciding to have a two-page spread on the one theme it took a short time to sort enough photos to fill the small album Anne had in the bottom of the container. Time flew by. We laughed as we reminisced over the photos, wondered why some were posed and terribly artificial looking.

Before we knew it lunch time had ticked around. Neither felt like cooking, neither felt like taking too much time over food. Instead I raided the refrigerator finding yoghurt and fruit; strawberries that were first for the season. Coffee or tea would have ruined a lunch like that. Anne confessed she had a bottle of homemade crab apple wine in the cupboard in the hallway; and with a guilty look wondered if it were too early in the day to sample it.

Dear Diary, Anne couldn't have been more wrong! Not that I needed a wine at lunch, but Anne had a sore leg and sorely needed perking up. Before she had time to change her mind I found the bottle, opened it with much aplomb, and poured the clear golden liquid into Anne's best crystal glasses. After all if one is going to partake of crab apple wine, homemade, at lunch, it should be served in the best glassware, not in a washed out Vegemite glass.

The afternoon flew. The album grew, and by late afternoon the photos and the accompanying journaling expressed a true account of the adventure of two elderly ladies at the seaside.

Goodnight Dear Diary ... This day has been rather wonderful!

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