The rain and flooding took a breather here in York on Sunday, though stepping out the front door early in the morning to let the dog out had a decidedly “Wuthering Heights” feel to it as the trees swayed to-and-fro in the half-light and both Snaffles and I were pushed sideways by the blustering wind.
In York the somewhat sombre mood instilled by the bracing weather continued as I passed a pub called “The Three Legged Mare“–named not after a three legged horse as I assumed and peered at the sign hanging outside but after a three-man hanging scaffold and which, I’m presuming, once operated at the same site.
Whether it did or didn’t, apparently a replica can be found in the pub’s garden–cheery stuff.
Things got a touch hairy in the Jeffrey kitchen by the close of the day when my mother slipped and took a tumble to the floor, knocking her jaw against a chair.
Thankfully she was all right–I saw it happen out of the corner of my eye and can attest to the fact she clutched to her chest the clean laundry she’d just picked up the whole way down to the kitchen tiles. Mothers are made of tough stuff evidently–especially at Christmas.
Having regained her composure, she dispatched me to Tesco for a final Christmas Eve shop. The line of the day went to another shopper who sped past me in the fruit and vegetable section muttering to his partner: “Where’s the f**kin’ celery.”
Tension mounts as Santa saddles up for a busy night.