Uncle Horace phoned this morning. This is an event in itself, as Horace is a) paralytically shy and b) has had the conversational urge beaten out of him by fifty five years of having B's mum talk over him. However, he seems to have taken a shine to me, and now occasionally phones me while B is away to impart nuggets about his life.
It is sometimes quite difficult to work out what it is that he has phoned up to tell me, as he tends to camoflage the important items in a kind of chaff of miscellaneous facts.
This morning we ran though his optician's appointment last week (successful, new prescription, two pairs of glasses), his forthcoming bloods appointment (at the new surgery, ten to ten Thursday, should be no problem) and the fact that he found a large pile of horse droppings on his walk by the river this morning and if he'd had a bag he would have collected them up for me to use in the garden. Buried in there was the news that his new furniture had arrived.
A friend/business colleague of B's mum, Denise, is moving out of her house on the south coast and has donated a sofa and an armchair to Horace. They arrived today, along with a set of three nested tables. His cat-swinging activities have been severely curtailed. He was wanting us to go round with the estate car and remove some stuff so that he can actually move around his living room without risk of injury.
Why is it that some people cannot *bear* to throw stuff away themselves? They look for someone to pass it on to, with the proviso that "this belonged to Great Aunt Mabel and she really loved it". Or "there's lots of wear in this yet, it will be fine to start you off". When the items are really ratty, worn out and should be burnt. Both B's mum and Denise are terrible at this.
We have promised to go round and help Horace with his furniture winnowing before B's mum comes back from holiday and guilt-trips him in to keeping everything.