A whangblamming thunderstorm and dazzling blue sky kind of day

 

. . . in more ways than one.  In the first place yes, the weather is completely crazed.  Because of other issues* the hellhounds got a series of short hurtles today rather than one long and one medium-length one, and trying to fit these in between cloudbursts was all part of the jolly fun.  So I’d just had the latest bit of bad news about the weekend’s Adventure** and I was blitzing around the cottage in a dangerous, bruising torpor because the archangels were due ANY MINUTE*** . . . and I finally thought to check my email and the archangels were going to be an hour later than scheduled.

            I could have had a little more sleep.

            I could have given the hellhounds a little more hurtle.

            I could have hung from the rafters screaming about the reality of Sunday travel a little longer.

            I did make myself a second cup of tea, left it on the Aga to stew, and took hellhounds for their second sprint of the day.  And got back to the latest parcel of little live green things, longing to be potted up and too tender to leave outdoors.  I’m hauling in trays of the little ratbags every night—and back out in the morning.  I’m running out of trays.  And the sweet peas, which arrived weeks ago, are starting to need repotting.  ARRRRRRGH.

            The archangels arrived†, were here for two hours . . . AND COULDN’T DO ANYTHING I WANTED THEM TO DO.  With the exception of a few bits and pieces, and getting the kanji-support Japanese download installed.††  But I need both Pooka and Astarte, both i-gizmos, frelling updated . . . and they couldn’t do it because my broadband is TOO SLOW.  Meanwhile, my so-called provider has changed hands, changed its name and logo, raised its prices and lost my Direct Debit details.  And claimed never to have received the archangels’ email, attachment and fax from a month ago about upgrading . . . they plainly raised their prices to pay the designer for the new logo which is undoubtedly larger, flashier, and in full colour, and which will cost more money to produce every month at the top of your invoice. 

            So the archangels sent it all again, and then went back to wrestling with various gremlins, ogres and unidentified snarly things.†††  Raphael checked in with my nonproviders in about fifteen minutes.  No, they hadn’t received the resend.  Half an hour.  No, they hadn’t received it.  An hour.  No, they hadn’t received it, hahahahahahahaha, isn’t this comical?  Meanwhile Gabriel had taken the lid off my phone housing, or whatever you call it, where the wires come in from outside, and did a hissing-between-his-teeth equivalent.  You will remember when this came up a week or something ago, that there’s nothing I can do about Brit Telecom’s utter indifference to the connectivity trials and tribulations of a small cul de sac in New Arcadia, and BT owns all the wiring.  Gabriel stared thoughtfully out the window at the telephone pole that various hysterically-laughing linemen have nearly fallen off.  Your Problem Is Obvious.  However between them they think that Raphael can bedevil my provider into providing something, and Gabriel can do something about the connection between Outside and Inside. 

            But meanwhile . . .

            I took hellhounds for another sprint and fulminated.  Work did not go at all well in what remained of the afternoon.  Also meanwhile . . . I had to go to Forza tonight.  I’d missed last week’s practise due to family arrivals and Morse-code electricity, the week before was some rangleblagging scheduled cancellation or other, and I’m going to miss next week because they’re having one of their forty-six-and-a-half bell practises.‡  I didn’t want to go tonight.  I didn’t want to go a lot.  I’m completely demoralised on the subject of tower ringing and I’ve pretty much turned the fact that I can’t deal with the abbey into a self-fulfilling prophesy of doom, and I’m short of sleep, dreading the pogo-stick journey on Sunday, and totally furious with my technology.  I’m clapped out on adrenaline and I’m exhausted. 

            I had to go.

            I went.

            Oh, and did I mention it was TIPPING it down?  On the way over in Wolfgang we were creeping along in third gear because I couldn’t see out of the frelling windscreen.

            And when I got there there were people crawling around with cameras.  What?  Leaving now.  And the Scary Man was in charge.  Whimper.  Why was I ever born?‡‡

            The Scary Man swooped down on me and said, Come ring some Grandsire Triples.  —Wait!  No!  I was going to run away!

            . . . I actually haven’t dwelled on how bad it’s been, the last few times at the abbey.  I had what I thought was that little breakthrough ringing on six bells rather than eight a while back . . . and then it went away, and I couldn’t ring on six either.  I am not joking about the demoralisation.  If it weren’t that it felt like either go on facing the abbey or give up ringing, I’d be staying home with a good book. 

            Anyway.  Yeah.  Clearly I’m setting you up to say . . . it was okay.  It was okay.  I didn’t ring frelling Grandsire frelling Triples flawlessly, but I was ringing it.  I wasn’t just blindly pulling on a rope and doing what my minder was shouting in my ear, which is mostly what it’s been so far.  I am going to do this.  I am going to learn to cope with the abbey.  Which is to say I may even have a bell tower again.  I’m sorry it’s a frelling abbey . . .  but it remains the nearest tower that rings methods if I’m not going back to New Arcadia and, hint, I’m not, and therefore my best option is an abbey. . . . where things like BAFTA-winning documentary makers come round and frelling film you.  Apparently we’re going to be part of a son-et-lumiere deal for some Hampshire festival.  We had exactly thirty-seven ringers for our thirty-seven bells and the Scary Man told us all to catch hold which therefore . . . included me.  We just rang rounds . . . but I’ve told you about this before:  when you’re ringing rounds on four hundred and twelve or even only thirty-seven you pull off and then hold up for frelling EVER while you’re waiting for the other thirty-six bells before it’s your turn again.  This doesn’t happen on six.  It’s very disconcerting to someone who is used to ringing on six and finds eight a stretch.  Oh, and if you see the film . . . I’m wearing a bright turquoise cardigan which would not have been my choice if I’d known I was going to be immortalised.  I’d have gone more for dark brown and a bag over my head.

            I also have to say a big fat shiny word for Gemma here.  She’s an abbey ringer, and she knows what a struggle I’ve been having.  She’s the one who’s kept saying, no, no, they will not tell you to go away and furthermore you will catch on.  She’s also the one who suggested that I try a different bell for triples because she found it easier to see from . . . and she’s right.  I think that’s one of the things that helped tonight.  She does keep smiling at me in this Rather Amused Fashion, but I have this effect on some people for some reason.  And I was so giddy tonight that I let her convince me to come to the pub after. . . .

            I may have a bell tower again.  My life is not over.

            And the OTHER THING?  I HAVE A NEST FULL OF ADORABLE FLUFFY BABY ROBINS IN THE GREENHOUSE.  They’re so cute you could die.  I rushed out and bought mealworms.  

* * *

* Including sleeping really badly because I’m starting (early) to stress out about an Adventure I’m slated for this weekend that I am dreading extremely.  So . . . of course.  I turned the alarm off and went back to sleep in one fluid movement.  The sleep I’d spent the last x hours not getting.  

** You cannot go ANYWHERE on a Sunday in this country.  They close the roads^, they close the railway lines, they lock all the barn doors before and after the horses have fled, they glue the wheels of all locally-flying airplanes to the runways, and the Sunday dog sled teams are booked years in advance.  Maybe if I started walking now. . . .  

^ Including bicycle paths and rickshaws. 

*** And I’d overslept.  See above. 

† Gabriel reported that they had been given a very suspicious look by one of my neighbours.  Hey, two young men in hoodies.  And Gabriel has a two-day beard. 

†† Do I even have to tell you that this did not go the way it was supposed to and I would have gotten totally screwed up and berserk if I’d tried to do it myself?  Whatever.  They pulled out one of their Magic Discs and made the software(s) talk to each other.  And now my Learn Japanese site isn’t mostly little empty rectangles. 

††† I sat on the floor and knitted.  With some help from hellhounds. 

‡ The half is the tower captain’s gerbil. 

‡‡ Don’t answer that.