It’s been a funny old week. The first thing that happened was an indecipherable item on my To Do list. I’m an inveterate list-maker because experience has shown me that I need order in my life. I accept that there are people for whom chaos is a seed bed of creativity, but I work a lot better if I know what I’m doing come 9 am on Monday.
That said, my lists can be a bit random. Stuff jotted down as I think of it and distilled later into various sub-lists. Thus, Worcestershire Sauce may appear alongside ‘flu shot, Norwich train times, telangiectasia (check sp.) and Mr Muscle. All perfectly clear. But last Monday morning there was an item that baffled me. Frieda Rootboost. What the?
An idea for the name of a character, perhaps? No, definitely not. I spend a lot of time (too much time, arguably) choosing names for my characters, even minor ones, but Frieda Rootboost would never have made it past first base. The mystery plagued me all day, then solved itself as I was drifting off to sleep. It was the abbreviated name of a hair product, the only thing that saves me from autumnal hat hair: John Frieda Rootbooster. Such a relief.
The following day, as I was travelling into Dublin to buy my chronically hypothermic husband some new thermals, I overheard the following conversation. I swear. I scribbled it in the margins of my Spectator so as not to forget it.
First Lady: Had she been ill long?
Second Lady: Not at all. In fact she was supposed to go to the hairdresser’s that afternoon. But then…
First Lady: Did you go to the funeral?
Second Lady: No, just the viewing. She looked very nice. Of course she’d have looked a lot better if she’d made it to the hairdresser’s.
Straight out of the Cissie & Ada playbook. And people wonder why I prefer public transport.