Home is the huntsman
Mar. 4th, 2007 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
todayiamadaisySo there I was, cleaning my teeth, when a horror film cliché happened to me: I saw something scary behind me in the mirror. In this case, one of the biggest spiders I've ever seen was climbing the outside of the shower door. I gasped, before realising that it was, in fact, just a huntsman. I feel sorry for huntsmen; they're more or less harmless, but they're large and hairy and like to live in unfortunate places. So many people I know have a story about flipping down the sun visor on their car, finding a huntsman there, and nearly driving off the road. Anyway, I caught this particular huntsman (which was larger than my palm) with a glass and a newspaper and carried it outside to the garden. I put it down near the tomato plants, it scuttled off... and a magpie swooped down from nowhere and ate it. *sighs* So much for helping.
After that, I took myself off to the gallery at the back of the Regal Shoppe Café for the Embroiderers' Guild biennial exhibition. My mother is a member of the Guild and has several pieces in the exhibition; not only that, but this morning she was on White Glove duty, roaming around the gallery telling people about the exhibits. How could I miss that? Anyway, the exhibition was good - goldwork coats of arms and metre-high goblins and blackwork maps. People are unbelievably talented, aren't they? The best bit, though, happened as I was leaving. I had stopped to talk to my mother's friend, Bev, who was selling entrance tickets in the foyer, when a middle-aged woman came in. She was yet another of those perpetually angry women, fairly bristling with self-righteousness. I stepped back and Bev said a cheery "good morning".
Woman: Do you have jam here?
Bev: Well, no. This is the embroidery exhibition.
Woman: Someone told me you were selling jam here.
Bev: Well, I'm sorry, but we're not. They sell some gourmet products in the café at the front, they might have jam.
Woman (peering round the corner into the exhibition hall): I can see some jam jars over there!
Bev: They're empty jars with embroidered covers. You could try eating what's in them, but you'd still be hungry.
Woman: Well, if you don't have jam, I might as well go.
And she did.
What is wrong with these people?
After that, I took myself off to the gallery at the back of the Regal Shoppe Café for the Embroiderers' Guild biennial exhibition. My mother is a member of the Guild and has several pieces in the exhibition; not only that, but this morning she was on White Glove duty, roaming around the gallery telling people about the exhibits. How could I miss that? Anyway, the exhibition was good - goldwork coats of arms and metre-high goblins and blackwork maps. People are unbelievably talented, aren't they? The best bit, though, happened as I was leaving. I had stopped to talk to my mother's friend, Bev, who was selling entrance tickets in the foyer, when a middle-aged woman came in. She was yet another of those perpetually angry women, fairly bristling with self-righteousness. I stepped back and Bev said a cheery "good morning".
Woman: Do you have jam here?
Bev: Well, no. This is the embroidery exhibition.
Woman: Someone told me you were selling jam here.
Bev: Well, I'm sorry, but we're not. They sell some gourmet products in the café at the front, they might have jam.
Woman (peering round the corner into the exhibition hall): I can see some jam jars over there!
Bev: They're empty jars with embroidered covers. You could try eating what's in them, but you'd still be hungry.
Woman: Well, if you don't have jam, I might as well go.
And she did.
What is wrong with these people?