Does wacky equal batty??? Surely not!

According to Google, that font of all knowledge, the dictionary definition of wacky is odd or irrational; crazy.
I prefer eccentric.
Certainly my dress sense has been described as veering on wacky on various occasions, but Friday evening, it seemingly rendered me batty.

Standing at the bus station waiting for a worryingly late night bus, I appeared to be labelled as batty and hard of hearing.
Amazing how a few drinks make everyone an expert.
And Swansea bus station by night appears to be batty central.

I voiced my worry about making a connection from the still to arrive night bus.
Big mistake.
The conversation went like this:

Expert:  No connection at Gowerton, dear, you can't get to Gower on this bus.

Me:       Oh yes I can, there's a connection at Gowerton.

Expert:  You're on the wrong bus love, you want the 116.

Me:        In daylight yes - at night, it's this bus.

Expert in loud voice to wife: See that girl, she's waiting for the wrong bus, she thinks this one goes to Gower.

Expert to me:  And where does the connection start from then, you want the NAT bus, the 116,  it starts here.               

Wife of expert:  Are you sure you want Gower?

By now I was losing the will to live.
Thankfully the bus did turn up.
As did the connection- all the way to Gower.

Fancy that...

Rural hibernation, an aversion to Christmas and the luminousity of pea and ham soup.

If I could sum up this week in three words they would be hibernation, bah-humbug and flight.
Hibernation as I have an aversion to winter.
Bah-humbug as Christmas just winds me up.
And flight as I've got definite itchy feet.
So, with radiators on full and the television switched firmly off I am blocking out the Christmas adverts and immersing myself in Liberty Lawn.

There is something very soothing about Liberty Lawn.
The timeless quality; chintz versus bold prints interspersed with  paisley riots.
My own personal favourites are the Susanna range of modern florals and the delicate paisley print below.
It's going to be a fox.
With textured wool accents.

No fabric in Cardiff yesterday.
Oh no.
Having fled the grey drizzle of Gower for the retail therapy of Cardiff it was on the agenda, but I was seduced by furry boots and Hotel Chocolat.
Can you ever have too many furry boots, particularly when they are furry sheepskin?
And as for Hotel Chocolat - well, it saved on postage.

This has been a week when I've rediscovered pea and ham soup but am still in search of my baking mojo.
It's all in the colour.
That luminous green, the radiant purple of the onion and the smokiness of the gammon.
The fact that it tastes amazing is an added bonus!

It has also been a week when I've found myself pondering on the dismissiveness that comes so effortlessly to my 22 year old son.
I happened to pick up the phone to his boss while he was out.
The text I later received read: 
 
Yes I can see no problems.
 Please don't answer/speak in future.
Hope you've had a nice day!

The word git sprung to mind...
 

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Dear Diary...Tuesday 17th December 1991. Numb.

7.30pm, nursing a large coffee and the after effects of cheap plonk at The Israel Museum.
And numb.

Thankyou, Bo, for lifting my mood this afternoon over red wine and crisps.
And for overseeing the babyfeet card, which probably shouldn't have been written with a wine fuzzled head.
The waffling expanded away from the straight lines...
As did Bo's walking when I waved her off at the hitching post.

Today is my last full day in Israel, fitting really that it should be Jerusalem.
But I'm numb to the core.
Each and every time I've come to Israel I've known I'd be back, but this time is different.
It feels so final.
And it wasn't meant to be like this.

Yesterday I left SdotYam.
My safety net.
Willie organised a brilliant farewell party the night before, where I broke my no drinking rule in truly shocking style, getting really drunk, and had a great time.
So many people were there, and then there were the ones who weren't, who we visited anyway!

A last walk on the beach, with Bo, Michael, four legged Jessica and I have no idea who the other two were, and a farewell coffee with the wonderful Yosi Seri. 
Max was passed out in my room - I had to prod her awake to say goodbye, then Bo, before waiting for my lift, and it was there, all alone with Jessica at my feet and the sun rising, that I broke down and cried.
It was tough.

Back in Jerusalem, after lugging an overflowing rucksack through the soggy back streets, The Jasmine was eerily silent.
Letting myself in, I was suddenly ankle deep in water, and it was deserted.
Best laid plans...
Luckily, the King George didn't require flippers, so I dumped my stuff, pocketed the card and, after wandering round aimlessly to put off the inevitable, I found myself at the door of the one place I knew I had to go.
Full of nerves, apprehension and the urge to run I eventually managed to knock the door.

And no-one answered.