Wednesday 13th December 2017

The year gently fades away, in eight days reaching the shortest day of the year, and just when it seems like it will get darker forever, the days will little by little begin to lengthen. At first not really any noticeable change, but the sun will begin to rise further south each morning, and those sun rises will get earlier. Of course, we could have hard weather after then, and the cold snap Britain just experienced could be the fortaste of the tough ones like 1963 or 1947. On the other hand we might not see frost again. High pressure has settled over the country, bringing short sunny days, and long dark nights with the stars and waning crescent moon shining bright enough to cast shadows. Yes, its cold, but not that cold, and in our garden, sunflowers and Foxgloves are still in flower, apparently ignoring the date on the calendar.

Wednesday morning was cloudy and dull. Dawn didn't announce its arrival by reds and yellows, just a lightening in the clouds covering the sky from horizon to horizon.

This week has been marked by the endless meetings each day, three hours as a minimum, and by three or four in the afternoon, my brain has turned to mush.

As was the case on Wednesday, time between the meetings for work; replying to mail and the urgent tasks. And then in meetings, listening to what people had to say, taking notes. Notes that I will probably never read, or if I do, not understand.

I have Molly now sleeping next to the laptop when I am working at the table. She seems to want company, which although is nice, her drastic change in temperament and nature is causing for concern; is is also easily cowed by the twins, and even Scully is stealing her favourite sleeping spots. The vets say there is nothing wrong, but Jools and I are both worried.

The day passes, with two thick crusts left in the loaf, I toast them, put slices of mature cheddar on the flat side and toast until brown and bubbling, before covering with half a can of beans. It is simple, but brings memories of suppers back in my parent's home, on Saturday evenings, watching the Two Ronnies or Dick Emery, and counting the minutes until Match of the Day would start. Simple meals for a simpler time, maybe.

I make more potato bread to go with the curried soup for dinner, Jools coming back at six or so, it already having been dark for two hours, with a storm beginning to build. Best batten down the hatches and make a brew then!

There was seven games being played, so I listen to the radio a bit, sit with Scully on the sofa, and in that way the evening passes quietly.

Five working days left this year!