78. A letter to Terry ✒️ #16
A jazz bar I’ll never find again, unsavoury pets, the end of an era, and dressing up for a bus ride.
Dear Terry,
Thank you for your latest letter, which as usual I thoroughly enjoyed.
Well, you’re certainly on my wavelength in one respect in your latest missive: we have the theme of boots in common! Imagine my surprise to be greeted – and before the first paragraph, no less – by a Terry-drawn picture of boots the very day after I had scheduled my own latest ‘Dear Reader, I’m lost’ post. Your boots contained only feet, not the frogspawn which had been deposited in the boot featured in my story, and I wonder whether that provokes envy or relief on your part?
In case anyone reading this letter over your shoulder hasn’t read ‘Fishing for frogspawn’ and would like to, my tale of damp and jellied welly-woe can be found right here:
Your words on jazz, Terry, were a real education. I have to admit to having had little experience listening to the stuff, although I have some rather jolly memories of dragging Jim out to a cellar jazz club in Edinburgh to hear a trio play late one chilly January night before we were married. Jim – as of course a fellow bassist would – only had eyes for the double bass player, whereas I was fascinated by the young pianist, whose hands were moving across the ivories at the speed of light. When I saw him at the bar later I was surprised to see that he only had two arms, having presumably left his spare pair to cool down on the piano stool during his break. The notes that had been pouring out of that keyboard had been absolutely astonishing.
I know what you’re going to ask me, but to my shame I’m afraid that I have no idea of either of the following:
The name of the jazz club
The name of the trio
I’m sure I don’t need to go into the fact that:
I also don’t know where the club was even located
I mean, both you and our mutual readership already know exactly how very unlikely it is for me to ever pinpoint the location of anywhere.
In fact, I’ll just take a quick snap of my scrawled draft of this letter to illustrate the point. Look, I hadn’t even got the name of the city right. It seems that my accomplishments in getting lost are not restricted to south of the border.
Crossings-out aside, my drafts are usually much prettier than this, but having just unpacked the van after our latest jaunts (we arrived home just this morning from a three-day trip) it seems that everything important (including my notebook, fountain pen and most of my brain cells) remains on board.
Thank you for your full and frank description of the kind of feline misbehaviour that can be observed at Freedman Towers. The two sneeze-fiends Mocha and Minty clearly need access to handkerchieves, and as for Willow’s sleeping habits compromising your ability to breathe at night, it is clear that you need to up sticks to the sofa to give the poor chap some bed space!
Speaking of the unsavouriness of pets (not you, Willow, in case you’re reading this), on our way back to the campsite from a gorgeous yet scorching walk along part of Chichester harbour wall at Emsworth yesterday I found three signs in quick succession all relating to dog poo.
I took a snap of each of them. The number of doggy deposits over such a short distance was – no, I don’t want to write ‘impressive’ lest it sound like encouragement – let’s say, remarkable, and it struck me that the numerous signs were serving only to highlight the problem, not prevent it. Showing the pictures to him later, Jim expressed surprise.
‘Didn’t you see the two on the other side of the lane, then?’
Terry, it occurs to me that a water issue such as your local council’s flooding problem that you and I have been calling ‘Puddlegate’ throughout our correspondence is something which these signwriting residents are crying out for, if only to give their lane a jolly good rinse!
This year’s just flying by, isn’t it? Last week marked a sad moment in the summer calendar, when on Midsummer’s Day the asparagus season drew to its close until St George’s Day next year. It’s all very well to eat veg in season, but when the season for my absolute favourite food only runs for two months from 23rd April I find myself gorging myself outrageously on the stuff while it’s available.
There is an asparagus farm a ten-minute drive away down stunning country lanes, their verges bursting with seasonal glory. I love to see the succession of flowers from primroses in early spring through to bluebells and stitchwort, with purple native orchids giving way to cow parsley and buttercups by high summer.
While the pickers had been in full swing cutting the asparagus as fast as the spears were rising out of the ground we would find ourselves darkening the door of the farm shop at least twice a week. And when the sun finally set on the longest day of the year, its golden glow marked the end of what had been another delicious asparagus season. Roll on next April!
It’s the end of an era, Terry. I shall comfort myself by looking forward to a profusion of runner beans this summer, this time from my own garden. Should I be worried that the plants have still got around four feet of their beanpoles yet to climb? 🤔
Well, I’m a little jaded from the crazy activities of the last few days, so please excuse the brevity of this letter. Our camping trip had been preceded by a family wedding in London, a highlight of which had been to embark a vintage open-top hop-on, hop-off Routemaster bus while wearing full evening dress in the midday sun of our latest heatwave.
Jim and I took great pleasure in singing ‘Hold very tight please, ting ting!’ on board in true Flanders & Swann style, although judging by some confused glances I’m not sure that many of our fellow travellers knew the reference. I’ve found the original 1957 two-and-a-half minute recording of ‘A Transport of Delight’ on YouTube in case you don’t know it either.
Just like the ‘big six-wheeler, scarlet-painted, London Transport, diesel-engined, ninety-seven horsepower omnibus’ of the song, the wedding was a delight. The bride and groom were very happy, both sides of the family enjoyed getting to know each other and the cocktails at the evening bash were jolly sustaining.
Terry, I danced all night. Well, until they made me stop, at least. 😉
Ting ting! 🎶
All the very best, as always,
Rebecca
If you’ve enjoyed reading this letter to Terry, please let me know by clicking the heart. Thank you! My next ‘Dear Reader, I’m lost’ post will be published as usual on Saturday. See you then!
You’ll find the rest of my letters in this series by clicking the ‘Letters to Terry’ tab on the top bar of my home page. Terry and I take it in turns to write to each other on alternate Wednesdays, and I really enjoy our light-hearted correspondence! You can access both Terry’s letters and mine using the index below:
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I love your Letters to Terry - their eclecticism is honestly a thing of wonder!
You should have complained about being transported in an unfinished bus. I mean, it didn't even have a roof 😱