Buying underwear is becoming a pain in the butt, especially when you’re after something in particular.
Factor in a colour preference and cost, and one could almost say you’re stuffed.
Not all that long ago, I could purchase a five pack for less than a fiver. Nice, thick, warm material, black, navy or dark grey, perfect for the man in my life.
It would appear that the humble Y-front is no longer widely available, and if you are fortunate to find some, the material is so thin you can shoot peas through it and you have the colour choice of white, white or white. (I have NEVER liked white underwear for men.)
Gone are the days when you are almost falling over the guys Ys in the supermarket. Now you have the choice of briefs, trunks or boxers, and sadly Hubby does not feel comfy in any of them.
Why, if you’ll excuse the pun, have the men’s undies manufacturers either reduced or ceased to produce a garment that has been tried and tested for umpteen years.
Fashion to me isn’t a bona-fide argument, as men wear their pants under their trousers (unless they are some kind of super hero) so who is going to see them, apart from their other half or partner?
There is no substitute either. You can either buy Y or ……..not.
Briefs are NOT the same.
And don’t get me started on the cost of the damn things when you eventually find them……. £10 for 3 and they make a good sieve.
The Swallows are back.
Year after year, they flock to familiar places, and every year we watch in awe as they dip and dive along the drainage ditches, hedges or line the telephone wires in their vast numbers.
Currently we are only seeing the odd one or two, but in the coming weeks they will be everywhere, including on the cables running into our house.
Last year, we were saddened to see two young birds lying dead on the roadside up the lane. Whether they had been hit by a car or were simply not strong enough to fly we’ll never know, but the thought of these beautiful creatures being squashed to pulp by passing vehicles made me pick them up and lay them gently in the hedgerow. I’m funny like that.
One of our first Summers here, one flew through the patio doors into our lounge, did a complete swoop of the room, and flew out again. The following year, another flew inside but got trapped behind the curtain, though I managed to guide it back outside before it hurt itself.
On another of our local walks, the hedgerows are teeming with them. Last year I stood and watched in wonder as they swooped around me.
It’s a sign of Summer.
It’s another of Nature’s miracles as these tiny birds cover great distances, and yet return to the same places every year with no GPS gadgetry or satellites to guide them.
I think it’s wonderful.
Is this one tree or many?
This silver birch is on our bottom route and consists of half a dozen or so entwined trunks.
It stands on its own little island of mossy grass where four pathways meet.
The only time I like yellow is when it is as Nature intended.
Sting’s song Fields of Gold is about barley.
Locally, our fields are bright yellow seas of rapeseed.
It’s like having a carpet of sunshine at your feet.
When ready for harvesting, the smell is marvellous, similar to honeysuckle.
And yes, these photos are mine.
For a change, we parked in the lay-by at the top of the woods today.
Being regular walkers, we have come to know a lot of vehicles, usually placing biscuits on rear bumpers for our doggie friends.
We haven’t stopped here for a while though, mainly because we have been avoiding the Staffy Man. He is actually quite nice, but his dogs are a different matter, and if both set on Maggie, she wouldn’t stand a chance. A twitchy collie is walked around the same time so we haven’t been taking any chances. It also helped that we were later than usual.
It’s very nice to appreciate what other people have, but as to those things fitting into my life, well, in most cases, no.
I have no need for the latest in mobile phone and computer technology, or TV surround sound, or electronic gadgetry. Anything we purchase is done so with practicality and economy in mind. It’s called a budget. (Not that I’m complaining, we live very well thanks.)
My expression Big Car, Little Dick always makes Hubby laugh.
Now before any guys start getting up in arms, let me explain.
If someone mentions The Beach Boys, either this or God only Knows immediately comes to mind.
It’s that time of year folks, the yellow and white satellites are raising their heads and the grass is turning Triffyd.
Hubby has been an absolute gem and done the first few cuts of the year.
Today however, I decided to give him a hand, just to show our mower that I bear it no ill will and have forgiven it for playing me up last year.
It is wonkier than I remember, and seems to have developed some kind of rattling language as it shook violently throughout my half of the job. One side has slipped a bit where Hubby had to do a botch repair when the bracket broke, but it still cranks up OK.
As normal, it was hard work. But it gave me a kind of buzz.
A bit like leaning against the washing machine on fast spin.