Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Of Pots and Potts

My seven mile walk on my arthritic ankles was partly justified by the chance to buy a clay pot for Miss Figgy, my new tree. Turned out, when I got home, that HL had already found quite another and completely inappropriate pot, and re-planted the fig tree, so she'll have to be re-housed again tomorrow. Hurrumph.

Wandering along, I was reminded of something the Widow, my first ex, said to one of the college staff in hall when we were undergraduates.

"What's your name, then?" he asked, with innocent ingratiation.
"Mrs Potts"
"No, your Christian name"
"I shall call you Chamber ..." (severe elbow in ribs from me and sotto voce "no you bloody won't") ... "no, I shall call you Flower". And Flower Potts is what he called her the rest of our time there, and she really seemed to like it.

She managed the bit of the college over the road in 88 St Aldates which was becoming a new little quad back then, and which now occasionally houses visiting Americans, amongst other honoured guests.

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