I am so pleased that the moisturiser reached you. I do so share your frustration with itchy spots. The older I get the more cracks in inaccessible places I seem to acquire. Anybody who knows me will tell you that I am no contortionist; I am many things but supple is not one of them. Which means I struggle to alleviate the not infrequent bouts of chaffing which plague and ravage me. I have found, this particular brand of moisturiser, rather like cocoa butter, has a melting point which allows me to place a dollop on my shoulders or in the small of my back and gravity does the rest. What a blessed relief it is, to feel it trickling into all of those nooks and crannies.
I can recommend greasing a bin bag – it does work. I find that green garden refuse sacks tend to be more durable than their black household counterparts. I secure the ties to my ankles like birthing stirrups, and away I go, rolling around my front room like Alan Bates and Oliver Reed.
I’m still waiting anxiously upon news about Flo’s charity abseil. That woman is unstoppable. Better to wear out than to rust out or so the saying goes; Flo and I testing out each option respectively.
The weather is noticeably kinder over here. I shall certainly value this summer after such a testing winter. And how nice for you to have a warm weekend in the offing in Itchy Ankle although I imagine even that will be testing after your sojourn to spicy hot Puerto Rico.
Thank you for your kind offer of a seed exchange. Before committing myself I shall do some research on your indigenous plant-life. In my mind I picture mango groves and all manner of spongey plants that would find it difficult to adapt to the English countryside but I’m not ruling it out until I know more. Fudge could be the way forward; just a suggestion but Devon is known for its cream teas and its clotted cream fudge. I’m not sure how well Itchy Marsh is served on the fudge front but a confectionery based cross-pollination is bound to be less vexing for our border control agencies. Just a thought.
Do keep in touch. Toodlepip.
Much as I appreciate your offer of a confectionary exchange, I must ask you to hold off on the fudge. I love the stuff, but you know how it is: a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. Americans are dear people, but they don’t really have fudge in the way that you do in the West Country–ooh I can taste that dense sugary butteriness now. They do have something called Salt Water Taffy which is sold on boardwalks up and down the East Coast. It’s a very soft, chewy substance and, to my mind, pretty flavorless. No salt water is involved in its manufacture. It wouldn’t be a particularly good import for Appleton Marsh.
On the subject of Itchy Ankle plant life, we are famed for our crape myrtles, black eyed susans and all kinds of daylilies. With luck (although you may need to be one of my facebook friends) you can check out some details from the Blarney back 4o here and here and here
The other thing that grows like billy-oh are hostas. When I lived in London, I always thought of hostas as rather nervy, effete plants, suited only to shady spots in Hampstead and fussed over by women in sunhats and sensible shoes–the kind of people who make their own organic slug deterrents. Here though, they grow like weeds. Slugs don’t seem to be big in Itchy Ankle–perhaps there’s too much salt in our clay from the brackish Chesapeake Bay.
Plans for the weekend planting got a little side tracked by Sawhorse Marilyn’s birthday brunch, a very festive occasion at a local waterfront hostelry and then Gretel and I went to see Alice in Wonderland in 3D. You have to duck a lot of butterflies and lowflying woodland debris but Helena Bonham Carter is very convincing as the Red Queen and really Matt Lucas (you know, him off the telly in Little Britain) was made to be both Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Shame not to see more of Johnny Depp without his facepaint and Hatter’s costuming, but you can’t have everything. Hope it makes to the Regency in Appleton Marsh.
Speaking of the movies, great excitement this year again in Itchy Ankle with the news that Barkis’s brother was the production designer for the Oscars. We don’t get to see much Harry Winston or Balenciaga in these parts, and the only red carpet is a rather tattered rug in the Blarney front room. Nonetheless, we all ironed our pj bottoms, scraped the mud off our crocs and dug out the mascara wands (women) and clip on bowties (men) to be part of the occasion. What a night! Of course, we don’t need much encouragement to lift a glass or two in Itchy Ankle.