Location: Cornwall, United Kingdom

Friday, October 28, 2005

st piran's oratory

G is just going to the garage to get the car's brakes fixed. She thinks S should go, but for once he's got his own way. Says he has to be up early tomorrow, which is a Saturday, when he doesn't normally do early, to have his flu injection which she organised yesterday. She thinks he's going to get avian flu otherwise. So his line was that it was her fault he'd have to miss his lie in tomorrow, so she should take the car today. Seems logical to me.

Yesterday we went to the Penhale dunes. I like it there: nobody about but dogs and their owners. We went to inspect the church of St Piran, which has been excavated recently. It had been buried in the sands in the early eighteenth century, when it was abandoned. G said there was his oratory nearby too, but S said that wasn't right, there was just the one church under the dunes. Then we met this tall chap with two springer spaniels, and he said there is an oratory between the hill with the cross on top, where we were, and the excavation. S seemed surprised that he was wrong; G didn't.

I hate springer spaniels, with their whippy tails and grinning faces. And what a stupid name: it's demeaning to dogs. If I was a spaniel I'd be a 'Walks Elegantly' spaniel. No springing for me.

G has lost the post-it where S wrote all the details of this blogspot. She says he should have filed it away somewhere safe, not just left it lying around on her desk. This surprised me a bit, because she should know he doesn't put things away. Then he found this WH Smith rollerball pen that was his. When he accused her of pinching it she said she'd just bought a pack of them, and the propelling pencils. He said it was spooky that she should buy the very same packs as him.

His irony fell on stony ground. Now she's late for the garage, because she searched for his bit of paper with my details, not trusting him to look properly. Can't say I blame her, as his idea of searching for something is to look immediately in front of him for about ten seconds.

He went to Plymouth on Wednesday to meet his friend. They just sit around talking about literature and football. Don't see the point myself. The hole I'm digging behind the fuchshia bush in the front garden has more purpose, and is infinitely more entertaining. I'm hoping to burrow under the wall, into next door's garden, where I can spring out, no, LEAP out on Maple the stupid cat. I'd like to get at Rosie who lives next door the other way, with her six toes on the front paws. It's not natural. Reminds S of that Crown of Creation sci-fi novel about the mutants and the giant horses. He says Jefferson Airplane got the song from it, but I can't see it myself.

Anyway, better go now and see if this posting will work, seeing as he couldn't enter the address and everything, and had to fiddle around to find the Create Post section. I know he's still fuming inside at G, but I think it's his fault.