Daisy, daisy...

When I was a child. mother told me me that my father proposed to her on an old tennis court, where these daisies grew. These ones, however, were in the graveyard! He did not turn out to be ideal husband/father material, but I was much cheered by reading Dibfulco's journal yesterday, about the Ruby-throated hummingbird, aka Dead-beat Dad. That little joke will see me right through Father's day and all the cards and t-shirts in the shops right now.

Of course, it later turned out to be a lovely day, but it started dull. After work, I went to the pond, where I was depressed to see that the cygnets have already learned to beg for, and eat, white sliced bread. There are signs about not feeding them, but as there is no one there selling, say, wholegrain middle class swan food .... Last year in afterschool club, I weaned the children off chocolate spread on white, five days a week, but got them hooked on sweet chilli sauce instead!

Went to an exhibition at museum (boring layout, unfortunately) and then to Tesco's to get the hayfver tablets that will not make most people drowsy, if used correctly. Got home, via graveyard, popped a pill, and yes ... you guessed it! Was most annoyed to be woken by phone call from Sky asking to speak to MR Petre. Does Helena look like a man's name? or maybe in Sky's world, I'm not the 'head of household' because I'm a woman, even though most of the bills are in my name ... GRRR. Mr Petre is, of course, my father or my brother.

Time for a story: a colleague rang BT to say that her husband had passed away, and that she'd like the bills changed to her name. The BT person, who was situated in a call centre in India, replied that he'd need to speak to her husband to confirm.
"But I've already told you, he's dead" she said.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know what passed away meant" was the reply.