Thanks for popping in. It’s been filthy outside, persisting down all day here in the southeast. While I had a good morning cleaning the house whilst listening to a great book (The Binding by Bridget Collins), Dave went into work to repair the stampmaking machine – what a difference a Dave makes – and we’re business as usual thanks to him.
By 3 pm I was ready to sit down. And it occurred to me that I might actually turn the TV on and watch a cheeky little episode of Downton Abbey, which has been on hold in this household since before Christmas. (I never watched it back in the day, for whatever reason, so have been catching up). Now this may seem a perfectly reasonable thing to do for the vast majority of you. But to me, who pretty much NEVER watches TV during the daytime, this was quite rebellious. Me? Watching the box on a Saturday afternoon? Unheard of.
So unheard of, in fact, that I didn’t know how to switch blimming NETFLIX on, or indeed find Downton Abbey! Had to wait till Dave came home, he who handles the remote, and by that time the rebellious aspect of watching afternoon telly had completely dissipated.
But it left me thinking. Why is something so normal in most homes so alien in mine? Why can’t I sit down and watch a soap during the day? Why did I feel guilty? And it’s a SATURDAY!! Something to reflect on for sure. I suppose I think TV is an evening sport. What do you think? I mean, they wouldn’t broadcast daytime TV if people didn’t watch it, would they?!
And irony of ironies, I even DO daytime TV! Like tomorrow at 2-4pm!! And yet I was very unsure about kicking back with Mr Bates and Anna this afternoon! I have a soft spot for Mr Bates.
Dave came home with a great letterpress print that he made this morning. He’s getting to grips with the huge Albion press, and working things out…
“Fabulous, Dave”, I said. To which he replied:
How right he is. So I put Downton Abbey on pause, left him in the kitchen, making Anglesey Eggs, which he wanted to make for us this evening,
and came up here to chat to you. How often do we dance to somebody else’s tune? And how often do we still dance to their tune years after they have departed, left the ballroom, expired.
So just for today, I am doing as I please. Not as somebody (and I don‘t even know who) would have me hop about. In fact, there’s nobody in my life except me who pushes me. Nobody. All self-inflicted. Now there’s food for thought!
PS. Mmmm. Dave just pinged me a pic in a text: Dinner’s Ready…