Rose-tinted; or, a disquisition by any other name

Wrap up warm

I just have to thank you all for your lovely comments on my previous posts - I am sure that you will all be most ecstatic to know that I have quite overcome any urge for a slot on Radio 4.

Boots tightly buckled

After all, it would probably only be three minutes long and as is their wont in the interests of Balance they would invite in someone guaranteed to disagree with every word I said, and I am sure that it would be all too flustering.

Thick woolly tights and extra skirt for warmth

And do I need such an outlet for venting my witterings on sundry subjects?

Don't forget a nice warm shawl

Why, no, I can stand on my soapbox in the orchard and expound my opinions to a captive audience, who are bound to nod sympathetically and agree with my every word, as if not they won't get their daily rations.

An adoring audience

Actually, I lie, it is not a soapbox, it is a beer bottle box, which would seem more fitting considering my heritage and connections (not that we are a family of soap-dodgers, you understand, there being only one soap-dodger in this little household and you know who you are).

Captive audience

Not that I know what a soapbox looks like, although I have always coveted one (along with a wrapover flowery pinny just like the one on Hen's blog here).

Distracted audience

And if the furred and feathered friends walk off, then all is not lost, as I have you, my dear readers, who say such nice things and fortify my resolve in so many ways (and raise my ratings with my offspring, as every lovely comment is another little point on the scorecard of people who agree with what their mother says, and also a demonstration of my long-expressed adage, 'If you can't say anything nice, then don't say anything at all.')

How interesting. Yes, fascinating. I wish she would go on forever. Don't worry, she will.

In fact, the days of expressing that adage seem to be fading fast, as the bickering has simmered down, and rarely now am I called upon to intervene in some sibling dispute, muttering under my breath blessed are the peacemakers . . . (I can never remember the second bit, in spite of the fact that I had to memorize the Beatitudes at school, but thanks to your encouragement I think I will now add, blessed are the knitters and needlewomen, the cooks and the bottlewashers for where would the world be without them . . .).

Did you say something?

The quiet has fallen again, although the house did erupt quite unexpectedly into noise, and grubby sinks, and wet bathmats, and voracious appetites, as my big boys arrived home again with laundry and empty stomachs, only to depart back to the groves of academe almost as suddenly as they had come.

And as they say, it Never Rains but it Pours - only a couple of days ago I was looking at my shiny sinks, and my tightly-laced shoes, and thinking that this is all very well but it won't keep me in cashmere cardigans, hand-dyed yarn and fat quarter bundles, then suddenly half-term hits me like a wave, with wall-to-wall B&B guests (the last two said that it was the best B&B they have ever stayed in, oh joy), sheets flapping on the washing line, sheets piled up in the ironing basket, sheets in the washing machine, and 100,000 words flying in over the wires (not a rush job, just a couple of weeks, you're not going away for half term are you?) . . .

Best coat

There was nothing for it but to put on my best coat and boots and my rose-tinted spectacles and gaze at far horizons, for the world to appear in a whole new light.  And the best thing about those glasses is that the rosy glow is not the least metaphorical - I suddenly noticed, as I was driving the Princess about, that as we motored down the hill with the Kentish countryside spread before us the sky was the most wonderful Technicolor blue, and I said to the Princess, look at those most exceedingly wonderful autumnal colours, look at the leaves on the trees all marching across hill and vale in the brightest and richest coppers and golds that I have ever seen in all my born days, it must be the weather this year . . . and I took off my glasses to see more clearly, and the colours went out like a light and we were back to English watercolours in shades of grey and russet.

Bathed in a rosy glow

So back on with the shades, they make the world a happy place - they came free with a Tatler magazine (or perhaps the magazine was free with the sunglasses) and I bought them on a whim in the spring for the promise that they would make me look rich and glamorous and famous and thin, and a whole host of other enthusiastic adjectives so many that I can't remember but I know that they must be true for they were printed on the paper that came with the magazine.

I will stride forth into the future, secure in the encouragement that you give me, and loving the rosy glow.