Vintage ...

Today was unremarkable in many ways: weather (frost gone, still cold, dank, grey); shopping and recovery and Italian; walk too late so that we came back to the car in the dark.). We had an unexpected lunch with a friend in the Burgh Hall café, which was nice, and I wrote a few more cards ...

And that last is what made me think of this: When people post on Facebook (or whatever) that they're no longer sending Christmas cards but have made a donation to whatever, do they expect to receive no cards at all? Do they assume everyone on their list, old and young, will be on the same social media sites as they are? Have they heard of the many charities that sell cards to raise funds? Do they not think of recipients for whom their card, along with others, matters because they rarely receive anything in the post other than bills and advertising? Or do they just think that's one thing less to think about in their hugely important and busy lives and next year they won't even have to bother about telling people or donating to charity anyway? And did they never write personal notes to old friends they don't see in everyday life? Just asking ...

And here's another reflection. Today was my early shopping (you all know that. I moan about it every week.) It was as annoying as last week - pallets and trolleys everywhere; several items not yet out of the store room. One of the staff told me it'd be worse over the festive period. (I may take him up on that and have a temporary change of plan). Friend Di asked me the other day why I insist on the early shop, and the obvious answer is that it suits me not to struggle against crowds and trolleys. But there are other reasons. There's the woman I only ever see in Morrison's, at that time - I taught her daughter; we chat. There's the chance of little, joyous moments, such as this morning's meeting with a completely unknown man of about my age and more or less my height (not huge). I couldn't reach the orange juice I wanted; it was too high and too far back on the shelf. "I need a tall man" I told him. He squared up to it. "Let's see," he said - and just managed to grab me a couple of cartons. I told him he was a star; he said "You've made my day!" and we parted, laughing. (I met him in every aisle after that - we giggled.) And there's Moira the check-out lady, who only works the early shift, with whom I share moans, grouses, stories of grandchildren, gossip every week. We remember things about each other, and part as friends. I've only once met her in the street, and she gives me a laugh. And finally, there's the euphoria of knowing that it's all over by ten o'clock and I don't have to think about it again for another week.

Now, what about the photo collage? Himself always arranges the musical accompaniment to our dinner in the evening - my only stipulation is that it mustn't be too loud, too exciting, too hard to talk over. Tonight we listened to Sinatra, and it wasn't until I heard the once-familiar noise of the clicks at the end of the side that I realised we were listening to one of our vinyl discs on the record deck. We used to listen to Sinatra a great deal in our early years here - it fair took me back - and we turned the record over and the second side saw us through to the end of dinner. 

Cool, huh?