Conversations with Marjorie Nettlespawn 3

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It was a steamy morning, and Marjorie came in from her walk all sweaty and immediately grabbed the purple hand towel I left out for her. I had discovered in the course of our morning chats that she was a purple girl and as I had a purple hand towel, I thought this was an ideal time to make use of it.

“Did you watch the cricket yesterday?” she asked and not waiting for an answer said, “that Smith fellow is amazing, isn’t he? Love watching him bat. You know cricket is a lot like baseball in that it’s a game of statistics and one stat I like is that when he reaches 25 in any innings, he averages 95 which is out of this world when you think about it.”

Marjorie was what we call a cricket tragic, and she could go on for hours about the game having read what I estimated as every cricket book ever written.

I announced that I was going out later as it was that time of the Christmas week when the elf was to be on the move again. He’d been at the house of the three boys this past week getting up to all sorts of Elf mischief, and it was time for him to move to the house of No 3 whose small daughter was looking forward to the elf’s visit…. though we were hoping for an improved visit this year as the elf whilst sitting on the ceiling fan was propelled off when daughter of No 3 turned on the fan. The result was an elf who needed band-aids to aid in its recovery.

It was around Christmas time each year that Marjorie’s ex came into discussion. Her reaction was the same each year: “If he was a woman you’d call him a real bitch,” she’d say….” the less said, the better and I hope he chokes on his Christmas pudding the great pudding that he is.”

Once that was off her chest she’d then begin telling me she was harvesting tomatoes like they were going out of style and as it was that time of year when anyone who had a tomato bush was in the same situation she had tomatoes coming out her ears. So, she’d set to making up tomato relish and following her age-old recipe concluded that this year as the tomatoes were extra juicy that she’d made more of a tomato sauce than a relish. Anyway, in her opinion, it all tasted good, and she’d include it in her next spaghetti bol she was to make later in the week. If I was lucky, I might score a jar as well.

So, with that, she put down her purple hand towel and headed off into Marjorie land where as she put it so often, ‘she’d get back to it’ and left me to get my day underway.

 

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