Telling stories

We drove round delivering the U3A newsletters, delivering ten in just under an hour, and so saving £3 on stamps. Then we had a root around in the charity shop, then went for a sit down, a coffee and a natter. As a present, her daughter had got her and her husband a weekend in the Cotswolds, with a “Pudding Club” dinner. “Have you heard of the Pudding club?”

I had. “A very small main course, then on to the puddings?”
-It wasn’t, actually. It was a proper roast dinner, with a large helping of turkey. Then we started on the puddings. They were all proper traditional English puddings:
(she counts them off on her fingers. She’s going to enumerate all of them!)
-Spotted dick, and apple crumble, and jam roly-poly, and Christmas pudding….

-There were seven puddings in all, and then after you could have extra helpings. I missed out on two, Steve had all seven, one man had three extra, that’s ten puddings!

Can I reciprocate?
-On Sunday at one in the morning, we were lounging around, under duvets, singing to a man with a guitar.
-Were you cold, or something?
-No, it was just nice to snuggle up, I say vaguely.

I would have called her a bit of a bore, but she has managed to fill our time together, and fill the time for conversation far better than I had, having far less detail to share. She recalls a pleasant memory. As she speaks, she feels that pleasure, and communicates it. I feel unable to broach the topic of my recent epic journey of self-acceptance, though perhaps that is unfair, and it would be heard kindly and with a similar feeling of pleasure. They walked around the village, and through a butcher’s window she saw the man making sausage links by hand. He was so quick! It was wonderful to watch.

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