And so, yesterday Neil’s toasting bagels. And then we smell something burning. And then I hear, ‘Babe, the toaster’s on fire.’ And I look up from my non-blog writing to see flames. Flames in the middle of my toaster.

Neil runs over and unplugs the toaster. Throws a damp cloth over it. My ‘Oh shit!’ was very helpful, in case you’re wondering.

And our smoke detector works. There’s that, too.

The toaster is now downstairs waiting to be taken to The Island Of Burnt Out Appliances. And we’ll be grilling bagels for a while.

We hang around the house, waiting for something else to spontaneously combust. When nothing happens, we go to The Edinburgh Mela to eat curry and see friends. And eat curry.

Here’s something else you may not know about me, if I’m not driving, I’m an easy target for leafleters. If my hand is up in front of my face, they think I’m really interested in their bits of dead tree. But really I’m just trying to block paper-cuts. In my eye. Yes, that has happened before, in case you’re wondering.

I’m perusing my pile of free crap. ‘Do I look depressed?’ I’ve discovered that post-wedding blues is a real thing, and I need a new project. But no, I am not depressed.

‘Do I look like I’d be interested in t’ai chi?’ Unless it’s in Central Park, or adapted for a seated position, then no, I’m not. Maybe that could be my new project, though?

Anyway. We eat. And then I eat some more.

Neil and I go home, after saying we’ll come back to see The Orb perform. I not-so-secretly am only interested in hearing Little Fluffy Clouds. No, I have never lived in Arizona. In case you’re wondering,

On the way home, it would seem that summer has disappeared. That’s OK, I like autumn. That morning, I liberated a turtle-neck sweater from the back of my dresser. Because it was cold, and if I say it’s cold, then it’s cold. And so windy that the trip home felt downhill all the way.

Neil and I have curry for dinner. Because we’re really not creative when it comes to food.

There’s a text saying the Mela’s closed because of the wind situation. No Orb. But it might re-open, so we leave our green paper wristbands on. Maybe Orb.

What I really want to do is stay home and light candles that smell like autumn and apple pie. But there was a wasp buzzing around the lights, and pretty soon the buzzing was all I heard. And so, we go out again. The tents are all ripped and windblown. No Orb.

We meet up with more friends and suddenly need a place to go that is kid-friendly, beagle-friendly and accessible. And so, we go home again.

The wasp welcomes us back. We don’t give him a name.

‘This will always be the day we nearly set fire to the kitchen and didn’t get to see The Orb,’ Neil says.

Popcorn is made. We listen to The Orb. In our house.  It’s all very quaint. Until.

‘Yo! Ow. Dude.’ I’m clawing at my turtle-neck/doing interpretative dance/practising t’ai chi. And I don’t know why. But it hurts.

Neil pulls me backwards through the hallway and into the bedroom. And I’m laughing, because it hurts.

‘What?’ Neil says.

‘Wasp! Boob! Shit!’ It’s all I can manage.

‘What?’

And then we pull the stinger out. Of my bra.

‘We’ll have to watch and see if it swells,’ Neil says. And I just kinda look at him.

‘How will we know? Because, y’know, it’s my boob.’

We go back to our friends. ‘Yeah, so. The wasp is gone.’

Later, I’m in bed with some ice. And Neil says, ‘So, fire, wind and a wasp.’

‘Memories are made of this.’

I fell asleep and dreamt of this song:

 

You’re welcome.  And I’m sorry, in case you’re wondering.  Maybe.

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