After Friday's 'trial by zip', everyone seemed up for a quieter day yesterday. Miss R's very good friend, Mrs O, turned up to spend some time with us - she drove all the way from somewhere else in Wales (you know Geography is not my strongest point), so yesterday morning, we all piled into two cars and headed to some unpronounceable/untypeable place just down the road for a middle-aged stroll around the shops.
Stop number one was for a pair of pyjamas for yours truly, having left mine at home. I don't know if I am slightly odd in saying this, but I always feel slightly vulnerable if I haven't got them on in bed. The thought of some poor firefighter throwing me over his shoulder in the event of fire is a huge worry to me, as is the eyesight of the firefighter behind us on the ladder. I often think that they'd take one look at my derriere....then a prolonged game of rock, paper, scissors would ensue to see who would win the dubious pleasure of hoisting my vast behind and everything else onto their shoulder. They'd probably just leave me there to burn now I come to think of it..
Anyway. Back to the pyjamas. In the middle of the unpronounceable town's square was a clothes shop which had stopped modernising around 1954. Walking in, it looked like the original Grace Brothers, and standing behind the counter were the husband and wife who had probably been running the shop for at least six decades. Covered in cobwebs and dust, they obviously didn't see many customers and he was slightly shocked when I asked if I could see his pyjamas. As I tried to retract what I'd said (old men in pyjamas is not my favourite image) and explain that I was looking for a pair for me, he started muttering about how he did have his own pyjamas, but they were at home.
Now he was almost sane, she on the other hand stood there motionless, wearing a black coat, buttoned up to the nostrils and a pair of glasses which were fashioned out of a coat hanger and a couple of milk bottle bottoms. She didn't say a word, just stared at the three of us like we were shoplifters, the only movement coming from the wafting chin hair as she breathed out.
Miss R and Mrs O took great delight in holding up various nighties (flannelette, flammable, brushed nylon) and asking whether this was 'the one'. Unfortunately, there was only one pair of pyjamas on the rail which was barely acceptable. Turquoise seersucker - now that's something you don't see very often (thank goodness). They only had a size 16, but it was them or a nightie which would set fire to the duvet if I moved too quickly in the night, so I handed them over to young Mr Grace.
As I was paying, I remembered that Miss R wanted to buy some socks. On the counter was a very handy rotating stand full of socks. One pair caught my attention...
'Diabetic Socks? What are they for?'
'Oh they're very popular', said young Mr Grace. 'They have a lot of stretch in them'.
Throwing a non-diabetic pair (probably with no stretch in them at all) into the bag, we headed back out to the husband and the 21st century. The discussion continued as to what the hell a Diabetic Sock was. Mrs O felt that it was probably sugar free, while Miss R wondered if you could possible catch diabetes from it.
I almost wished I'd bought a pair just to find out, but at 14 shillings, they were a little pricy.....