It had been a little foggy earlier on & as the sun warmed the morning, the softness of a spring day breathed new life through opening buds growing throughout the countryside. In the narrow lanes, clumps of yellow primroses bloomed amid the feathery fronds of the green cow parsley, shouting spring in the mellow morning where wispy droplets of moisture still hung in the hedgerows. The cow parsley would not flower until May, when it reached tall on the sides of the road growing in abundance, narrowing the winding lanes still further. Obscuring the delicate daisy-like stitchwort & vague white petals of wood anemone, cow parsley stretched as far as the gurgling stream, flowing under a wooden bridge at the bottom of the hill.
A skylark hovered above the top field, chirping & twittering continuously singing a territorial song, while blackbirds hopped in & out of apple boughs, blossom petals fluttering gently to the grass below. The cuckoo had called from the wood & black feathered pheasants squawked noisily into the garden.
In the village, old Mrs. T had been fumbling with her laptop, not knowing which end was what. Her grandson had shown her the tricks of the trade, but not practicing, old Mrs. T had got confused, not bothering to persevere with the somewhat bothersome 'gadget'. Over time, she had tucked it away in a cupboard of the spare room, upstairs in her cottage. But there comes a time in a person's life when, what comes around, goes around. She was not coming to terms with it, not bothering to open it for some time - years in fact - eight years in fact! She didn't know how, until a sporting friend from the past, happened to call one day to try & patiently coax her into learning what all the symbols meant, a little hesitant herself, as she had hardly touched a laptop before. Together they fathomed out what all the pictures on the left of her opening page meant & slowly Mrs. T would actually learn how to find & send emails.
"What's that for?" asked Mrs. T, pointing to a shortcut. "Hmm, oh, I've heard of those, but never really bothered with them much before." "Too many other things going on."
The friend made her practice, patiently going through the sequence of clicks, what seemed to old Mrs. T - an eternity! She fingered the inbuilt mouse clumsily, but slowly left-clicked onto things, double left clicked onto others, scrolled down pages & vaguely started to become more enlightened with the impervious beast. She was adding snippets of information to her repertoire, which in the past had been non-existent. Dubious attempts at finding her email friends once or twice in the past, leaving them dangling in mid air for so long, resulted in non-communication completely!
Mrs.T sighed quietly, wrinkled her nose, shifting in her chair, but kept her right hand directing the cursor, moving it this way then that, replying to the first email at the top of a very long list. Her long lost email friends would have given up long ago. Expecting a reply & being more than surprised to receive one now, to whatever question or remark they had made years before.
Her dogs lying near her feet, were becoming restless. Several books were piled up on the dining room table or sprawled across her desk amid bills waiting to be dealt with, one way or another. The books, some stacked waiting to be read or returned to the library, others had been referred to & lay open on her desk in a haphazard manner.
But Mrs. T was actually a very talented lady, an excellent amateur actress, having played many different & challenging roles in local theatre groups, performing at various country guildhalls. The nearest one, having a large stage where several Gilbert & Sullivan light operas, amongst others, were performed, Mrs.T, possessing a strong & mellow voice, would take her allotted part & with uncompromising clarity & perfect diction, belt out octave perfect & self-confident reassured ability. Her artistic talents, with sheer exuberance & onstage shenanigans often outshining all others, would bring the whole house down. Iolanthe, she did justice to, her voice resonating to the rafters, richly executing each performance, to be widely appreciated by a large audience. She would also play the organ in the village church on a Sunday & for weddings & funerals. Old Mrs. T, almost retired from sport altogether, was a powerful woman on the tennis court. Having a fearsome backhand that, once the ball had left her racquet, was hardly to be seen again as it flew off close to the baseline at the other end of the court, leaving her opponents gasping & utterly bewildered.
This particular day, the tennis colleague from the past, had spent a considerable time pushing mind-bending patience to the limit, resulting in a fairly satisfactory session of achieving sufficient computer skills in email-literacy etc., for Mrs. T to cope with on her own later.
She now fidgeted on her chair once more, sighed for a second time & studied the email page with careful scrutinizing, which still showed a lengthy list of un-read & un-dealt with correspondence. Some from a long distance away, in relation to her musical talents. And the dates that went back several years, would have resulted in those people's complete abandonment with the matter at the time.
Everyone has their tolerance level & it would seem Mrs. T had reached hers. With a final expulsion of pent up concentration emanating from her taut mouth, the laptop was firmly closed with relevant finality. She pulled a sort of resigned face, eyebrows knitting together in a somewhat comical frown. Then rose decidedly from her chair, picked up the laptop holding it purposely in front of her & with a certain amount of disdain, firmly marched upstairs, replacing the laptop back in the cupboard of the spare room from whence it came!
With a slightly smug grin on her face, Mrs. T returned to the dining room & announced that perhaps it was time to take the dogs on their usual walk. It was a cue for the visitor to bid farewell, delighting in the thought that perhaps after the slightly trying audition encompassing much patience & perseverance, some further travel on one's own, would be very much the order of what remained of the day.
After a cheerful exchange of departing words, the visitor passed through the front door with the impression that, after returning home on the other side of the world, it may be another eight years before an email from her friend, landed in her inbox!
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