My business card will carry the poem 'Warning' by Jenny Joseph.

Warning

I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends for dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.


(http://www.wussu.com/poems/jjw.htm)

This is such a wonderful poem. The rebellion now seems absurdly dated (summer gloves!), yet it works brilliantly.

Going again over old ground

The plumber (I refuse to refer to him as a heating engineer) came back this morning, to repair the damage he did to the central heating a fortnight ago, when he installed the new boiler.  For half an hour, I seethed in my study, while he hurried from radiator to radiator, attempting to bleed them simultaneously, thereby causing filthy water to spurt from several at once, damaging carpets.   As soon as he left, I  rang the contractor to complain, yet again. 

The rest of the day was all work. Since both secretaries are on leave this week, I spent hours photocopying stuff for students, and seething some more at the fact that, despite now having two secretaries, I and all the other academic staff still have to devote an excessive proportion of most weeks to the photocopier.  I exacted retribution by way of a long (and fruitful) dawdle through the library stacks, before dividing the rest of the afternoon between rereading The Spaewife and rewriting a course for next term.

More rewriting and rereading tomorrow. 

Hamster and wheel, hamster and wheel.

Another week in the Canaries, and this time I’ve come back very brown - when it was hot it was very, very hot. Unfortunately, when it was not hot is was very, very  overcast and extremely windy.  Still, I went in order to sleep and read, and managed both for huge periods of time, regardless of whether I could read and sleep in the sun or needed to retreat to the apartment.

I also read Priestley’s The Good Companions.  It made me chuckle - once I’d got used to the Yorkshire dialect.  It’s a delightful book but I can’t imagine that the TV serialisation will have been able to capture its charm, and will have reduced it to a picaresque romp. 

We stayed much nearer the strip than last time – we were almost on it.  Surprisingly noise wasn’t an issue, in part because nightclubs aren’t as numerous as in, for example, Tenerife; but also because the tourist population wasn’t particularly young. The apartment was pleasingly spacious, and largely well arranged, although a rather odd arrangement of windows in the bathroom and kitchen meant all that went on in the neighbours’ bathroom was unsettlingly obvious if we were in the living room.  

I had a couple of disastrous meals, each the result of ‘international’ restaurants, which have spring up everywhere.  It would appear that international restaurants can’t cope with spaghetti.  Still, we found a small Italian restaurant, which I liked so much that we ate there three times.  After a salad there, I’ve developed a passion for mozzarella cheese served with fresh strawberries – I plan to try out the combination in lunch-box sandwiches next week.