A Matter Of Foolish Pride

I've long been eligible for the special pensioner's rate that some restaurants offer but yesterday was the first time I ever claimed it. The woman taking our order more or less insisted. It was a package- a main course with a pudding and a cup of coffee. "But I don't want the coffee," I protested, weakly. "Don't worry," said Ailz. "I'll have yours as well as mine."

I asserted a minimum of independence by adding a miniature bottle of wine to my order. There was no special old people's rate on that.

I like being a pensioner, but I don't like being seen as one. I mean to say, did Orson Welles ever claim his pensioner's discount? I doubt it. He just strode out at the end of the meal without paying the bill...

Conifers And Cats

The café with the special rate for pensioners was in a garden centre. Yes, I have started going to garden centres; I must be old.

We bought shrubs and lavender bushes and a half-price Christmas tree. The tree will serve as an exclamation mark at the bottom end of the long border at the front of the house. I've been planting them out this morning. Memo to self: the back seat of the car needs to be swept for pine needles.

The cats are no friendlier to one another than they were, but they're going to have to make the effort. I have discovered- or rediscovered- over the past couple of days that if you're holding a cat that feels threatened by another cat it will suddenly turn into a writhing mass of knives.