Mrs P has taken up knitting cakes, a popular past-time in these parts it seems. She picked up the pattern book at a local charity shop. It was good as new, apart from a few expletives scrawled on the cover in crayon.
I volunteered to take the kids to the town centre to look at the Christmas lights, but they just rolled their eyes at me, saying that temporary traffic signals didn’t really constitute a light show. And anyway, we did that yesterday.
So I switched on the television, changed channels, then switched it off again. They only have three channels in Yorkshire, all of them in black and white and one that only shows interminable re-runs of Calendar, the dreary local news programme.
Master P asked whether the ancient Rediffusion set has high definition, so I pointed him to the contrast control.
I would invite Pc Barraclough to join us from nextdoor, but Mrs P isn’t keen. The hot ashes blown from his pipe have already burned a hole in the carpet and she says that she has the devil’s own job getting the antimacassars clean after he’s laid his lacquered perm on them.
Perhaps Pc Derek will call round later. He was still limping yesterday after the poor reception for his policewoman drag act at Attercliffe Working Men’s Club on Sunday. He barely escaped with his life.
Master P hopes he won’t in any case. He complains that Derek’s perfume brings on his asthma.
We might go to the zoo tomorrow. I’ve read that there’s a place not too far away where they keep parking attendants in captivity. Feeding time is quite a sight to behold I’m told.
Meanwhile, Miss P is tipexing the squares in the Cleckhuddersfax Courier crossword so she can complete it again to give herself something to do.
Personally, I found the clues a little peculiar. For example, 12 across: ‘eggs on’, five letters; answer: ‘toast’.
Sigh. I’m beginning to wonder if my stand against the revisionism of Yorkshire history is worth it after all.
* King John, Act 3 scene 4