The Ashbourne Experience.

I saw that woman in Ashbourne again today, the one who smiles at me and does the ‘I know what you did last summer’ look. Who the hell is she?

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And I took the latest roll of film in for processing. The shop assistant wanted my name and phone number.

‘National Insurance number?’ I asked.

‘Nope.’

‘Shoe size?’

‘Nope. Ready in five days.’

I think she was in a bad mood.

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I’m doing the rounds of the charity shops at the moment, looking for lightweight summer sweaters and a fruit bowl. I went into one today and saw a woman buying several of those big, stiff, see-through hats that women with no taste wear to weddings. Why do they do it? If they have to wear hats, why can’t they wear berets or cowls or Paddington Bear hats (Sarah has one – a blue one with a bow – and looks lovely in it.) Something feminine, something flattering, something characterful. I suspect it might be because that woman Prince Charles married was seen in one once and it set a trend. Can’t imagine why. I saw her interviewed recently and she looked like a sack of potatoes with the gusset gone.

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On the way back to the car I got the oddest craving for ice cream, and guess what. There was no ice cream van in bloody Ashbourne today! All I could get were those wrapped things in fridges in newsagents – the sort that have chocolate coatings and nuts and suchlike. I didn’t want one of those; I wanted a simple cone or wafer. In fact, the ideal would have been a simple bowl of ice cream. Wouldn’t you think it would be really easy to get a bowl of ice cream? Not in Ashbourne. But at least I made enquiries and discovered that the coffee stop by the car park does barista coffee with pouring cream, so that was a bit of good news. Now all I have to do is find somebody to take coffee with me.