A Quiet Day of Coming to Pieces in Various Directions

 

The morning did not get off to a happy, articulate start when the phone went off like the end of the world at eight thirty.  I'd had about four hours' sleep at that point.*  My other credit card—the one that hasn't just been replaced after someone in Tokyo put their gambling debts on it—was ringing up in an automated sweat to tell me that there was fraudulent activity.  In this case, no, there wasn't.  Yesterday I had been trying to order some of those remaindered copies of the hardbacks of CHALICE and DRAGONHAVEN from Putnams and Putnams was telling me my card wouldn't go through.  But of course I never buy books.  I'm not at all surprised that Wondercard's automated doohickey was flagging this as suspicious behaviour.  My other card accepted the charge meekly—the same card that had accepted those gambling debts in Tokyo before scratching its head and saying 'hmmm'.  There's a moral here somewhere. 

            It was another hard evening at the handbell rockface.  I was made to Feel Bad for not putting in an appearance on Tuesday at Niall's when they had Need of me.  Well, yes, but the fulfilment of that particular need would have manifested as my being given an evil ratbag pair of inside bells and reading the lines off a piece of paper so I could stay stolidly right for the other, erratic people who . . . ring like me.  Sigh.  My great handbell gift:  being able to ring while reading the lines.  I've told you this before—never occurred to me this would count as a talent, but I'm pretty much the only handbell ringer I know who can do it.  Or anyway the fancy people who probably can don't have to because they already know the method, whatever it is, any method, all methods, they know them.  Sigh.  We haven't got the necessary inertial mass, as Niall calls it, of really good ringers around here.**   But ringing off a piece of paper is boring.  You don't learn anything—or I don't—I'm just an eye-hand conduit.  Learning some frelling line is SLOW.  It has to pass soberly through your brain between your eyes and your fingers.  Your synapses have to have time to fire individually.***  Over and over and over and . . .

            All of this goes to explain why I seem to have agreed to come along next Tuesday to ring handbells at Fernanda's house in Mauncester.  Although when Fernanda said, but ten o'clock is absolutely the latest. . . .

            WHAT? I said.  Ringing practise—whatever kind of ringing practise—ends at nine.  Unless it starts early in which case it ends earlier.    Two hours.  Max.  And that's handbells, with a tea break.  Tower bells is an hour and a half.†

            Oh yes, said Fernanda.  We were just leaving at eleven when Penelope came home††.  I don't think she was glad to see us.

            At ELEVEN?  No, I don't suppose she was glad to see you.  I was going to hitch a ride with Niall next Tuesday, but maybe I'll take my own car.†††  Meanwhile I am now motivated to try and get that plain course on the 3-4 to bob major nailed by next Tuesday‡ .  I about managed a touch of bob minor on the 3-4 tonight with just the three of us, but it is as I feared:  when I've got myself used to counting to eight for major, I start falling over the edge of those little short six-bell lines in minor.  Whooop.  My handbell talent, you know, isn't really about handbells:  it's about reading.

             I wonder what kind of tea and biscuits Fernanda serves.  This is important.‡‡    

* * *

* I know, I know.  But I was reading something thrilling.  

** Or rather, the ones we do have are only interested in ringing extra-fancy peals with others of their ilk.  Grrrrr.  You've heard me on this subject before too:  if you're good, damn it, put in some hours teaching beginners.  How do you think people learn to ring?  The Bell Fairy?  I've now rung enough quarters in hand that I occasionally hear from Niall that the big kids are expecting me to ring a full peal with them some day.  No.  For a variety of reasons.  One of them is because I think they're spoilt brats. 

*** Especially when you only have three, and they're also busy keeping your heart beating and digesting your lunch etc. 

† Except tomorrow night.  Tomorrow night is the annual tower meeting.  Aaaaugh.  The annual tower meeting is bad enough just because it is—agendas!  Minutes!  Nominating!  Seconding!  Finding yourself made Deputy Ringing Master over your own dead body!  —Which last makes it that much more Not On to have a pressing alternate engagement on annual tower meeting night.  I'm an officer.  Ugh.  This is being put critically to the test tomorrow however after Niall asked me tonight if I'd looked at the agenda.  Are you kidding?  I said.  Living through it is going to be bad enough.  Fine, he said, but you should know that one of the items is 'Deputy Ringing Master's Report'.

            WHAT?    

             Okay, do I get to say that I hate it when the Ringing Master goes on holiday?

†† She's teaching adult-ed classes.  It's not like she'd been out carousing with her friends.

††† The red and shiny Wolfgang!  Yaaaay!  I did change the hellhound bedding although I fear the smell of wet dog may have become systemic.  And we got out of town for our hurtle today.  I could see hellhounds growing taller as they pranced along the first hedgerow and the thought-balloons over their heads were reading 'well finally'.^  We had to turn back early when we ran amok of another dranglefabbing shoot stretched, with fine disregard for public safety, across the footpath.  But it is one of the working principles of my life that you don't argue with people with guns.   Especially not people with guns with loose Labradors more or less at heel, who are getting bored with the comparative lack of dead birds to retrieve, and may be looking for other amusements.  A testy owner waving a gun around because his [sic] dog is not obeying is on my bottom ten list of least favourite things.

            But we came back along a little back road where there were a couple of blokes building a brick-and-flint wall.  Brick-and-flint is Hampshire to me, despite the fact that none of our current three houses nor the old house were made of it;  and I do have a very fine old brick-and-flint wall around the cottage garden.  I also have a fantasy of a brick-and-flint wall along the footpath edge of Third House's garden.  I'm afraid it's in the same category of fantasy as the conservatory off Third House's sitting room is but . . . I took the wall-building blokes' card.  I will probably even ring them up.  Not because I think I can afford a wall.  But because the fellow I spoke to has whippets.  Maybe he could bring them along when he comes to give me an estimate. . . . 

^ Also, 'rabbits?  Any rabbits?'

‡ Ouch.  I think that synapse is already in use.

‡‡ An additional reason we don't want Penelope pissed off is that she bakes.  We get Penelope's cakes when we ring at Niall's.  And speaking of pissed-off spouses . . . I'm ringing three nights a week now.  I sneak in the handbells on Thursdays because we meet early, and I sometimes manage to get back to the mews for supper only moderately late.  I may start having Rebellious Spouse if I'm ringing four nights a week.  Not to mention Rebellious Novel in Progress.  Rebellious hellhounds, not so much.  They have fairly emphatic little ways of getting what they want.  The baying and the climbing into my lap (simultaneously) are  fairly irresistible.