We've just waved goodbye to some loved people, faithful visitors who come up and see a couple of times a year and make us glad in their coming and sad in their leaving. I love late evenings with them, basking 'in the warmth of a farmhouse kitchen' with glass in hand, listening and laughing. There's nothing quite like seeing the old blue bus lurch around the corner and crossing my fingers that they'll be back again next time, Labour Weekend, Easter, whenever. This year Price will be 70 and Aunty Anna was so sick with a cough when she arrived she said she thought it might be time to start dusting off the curtains. Please no, please not for years and years years. I hope that Jill and Aunty Anna are drinking wine in the sunshine at Mangonui as I write. They were the best fun the child has had in weeks! So while they have been warming up this cold week, Dan has been processing honey from an entire box of honeycombs. There are roasting dishes and pots and cartons of honey, combs and unidentified runny sweet stuff on every surface, and supposedly UMF 16+ bee-attracting globs all over the floor/hearth/bench etc. Will stash a few jars in my survival box, just in case of random MRSA staph outbreaks. Or, more prosaically, wounds.
On another note, I am still alive. On Tues night I was too sore to leave my chair and my aunts cooked dinner and cleaned up afterwards. In my house. And I, who am 30 years their junior, sat and moaned quietly from time to time. The moaning was my entire contribution to the evening, someone even had to pick my plate up off my lap. I thought it might be curtain-dusting time for me, in fact, at times on Monday and Tuesday I actively wished it. But it's Friday, the sun is shining, and my legs work again. And I am thinking about getting up early to go to the gym by myself tomorrow morning (clunk. That was me falling off my chair in shock at myself).
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