23 June 2014
“They’re old hands at that sort of thing; they spent years in the Far East, you know.”
“The Stringers or the Wadham-Bassetts can easily do that dinner for you. They’re old hands at entertaining.”
Not those Old Hands but these old hands. The ones that line up an array of plastic bottles, medicines, and drug strips; tins of tomatoes, boxes of wine and coffee, etcetera (pause to look up “cetera”), in front of BH’s breakfast bowl.
I know these things must be kept away from babies and children. I also know I need them on a daily basis.
BH’s hands are one of the first things I fell in love with: he has lovely hands, so important in a man, don’t you think? They are still strong enough to open these necessaries. If it were not so, our flat would be very grubby, nay smelly; my blood pressure, asthma, ulcer etcetera (pause to tell the world that “cetera” = so forth, “et” supplying the “and”), and likely we would starve to death or live on potatoes provided they came in a brown paper bag.
Many a morning I open the milk for my 4 o’clock cup of tea with my teeth.
Yes, I’ve bought every gadget in the book: rubbish tin-and-jar openers, a giant set of “easy use” tongs, a rubber mat to grip and twist. I have turned things upside down in boiling water, I have frozen others. All useless.
It’s reached the stage when: “Desperate old lady in nightie seen rushing into street waving bleach bottle!” may headline in the local rag.