On Conversations and Countesses.

I had three conversations with denizens of the Shire today: one with a couple who live around the corner, a second with the Lady B’s dear mama, and a third with a donkey in Meadow Lane who brayed at me so loudly that I feared he might wake some of the residents of the churchyard half a mile away. He shut up when I picked him a handful of fresh grass from the verge outside the gate, and that gave me an idea.

I sometimes feel irritated when people stop my way upon the blasted road when all I want to do is keep on walking. Maybe I should hand them some fresh grass from the verge, and then maybe I’ll be able to make my escape while they chew on it.

Dear Mama was outside in the sunshine doing a job in the garden while the painters were busy painting her stucco cottage. I stuck my courage to the sticking place (that’s two references to Macbeth in one post) and asked her the question which has long intrigued me: ‘How do you manage to look younger every time I see you?’

It sounded crass, if not actually creepy, but it’s true that she does and it’s true that it intrigues me, so why not? She smiled (nicely.) And that makes her not only the classiest dame I’ve ever known, but also the only woman of her age I’ve ever encountered and found attractive. If she became invisible when she turned forty – as women are supposed to do – she’s certainly managed to somehow reverse the trend ever since. Maybe she was a Hungarian countess in a previous life (or even two hundred years ago in her present one) and keeps a vat of virgin’s blood in one of her outbuildings (the one next to the dung heap I expect, so people will give the location a wide berth.) And maybe she’ll get chased to the burning mill before I do.