Tartan Robin

Some of my friends would say I was obsessive and a trifle eccentric in my pursuits, but they haven't been to the gym to judge me against other women.

Although I prefer the open air in which to pursue my somewhat ineffective exercise regime, I have had to fall back on the gym experience lately while the pavements and paths are a bit risky. There, I can see with my own eyes the levels of other women's obsessive exercising.

There is one young woman whose upper arms are the same width as my ankles, who spends at least an hour every day of the week on the step machine at a high level and another lady who spends about the same time walking up a vertiginous slope on a running machine.
I know they're present every day because his Lordship reports back when I'm not there.

To be honest, I admit to being jealous of the skinniness of these women and also of their ability not to get bored to distraction doing the same thing everyday for hours on end. My boredom level is very low.
They must be able to get into 'the zone', a feat which stubbornly refuses to present itself to me.

Having somewhat hastily donated every bit of Christmas decoration to the family before last year's move, we found ourselves having to buy a new fake Christmas tree today; one that comes apart and can be stored in such space as we have.
We did this in total harmony without one single cross word between us. The Christmas spirit has come early to the Dower House.

This lovely Glaswegian robin given to us last year by Gillipaw has pride of position on the tree, and looks very pleased with himself amongst the new shiny balls and stars.

I will miss my 48 year old fairy with the greying wings and the slightly wonky wand. I hope whichever child got her, has put her on top of their tree, but I suspect she has been pensioned off.
Oh dear, how very sad after all these years of family Christmases when she looked down from on high on excited children opening their stockings.

Happy Memories indeed.