Saturday 1st August 2020

It am the weekend.

And, first, the news.

On Thursday, contracts were exchanged, which means, apparently that Mum's house is nearly sold. And would actually cost us money to back out.

Even more news is that the sale will be completed on August 12th, did I say that already in one of these posts? Although the influx of squillions of pounds might not be until the end of the month or in September, as a number of "other parties" need to be paid off first. Like the estate agent, the solicitor and the funeral company.

As before, we are trying our hardest not to spend the money before it is in our hands, but the thought of paying off the mortgage and other stuff is very tempting.

The fly in the ointment is Jools' job. She is furloughed now until at least the end of the month, and it might be there is no job to go back for, or at least until Brexit is sorted out one way or another. Which means even next year's dream trip to New Zealand could be in jeopardy if she loses her job and can't find something else.

Of course, others will be in similar positions, except for us, we won't have the millstone of a mortgage round our necks. We really will be very lucky indeed.

But for now, we carry on as normal. Or what counts as normal in these abnormal times.

And it is the weekend.

And the age old question from Jools is: what's the plan?

Well the plan is orchids and butterflies, though not necessarily in that order.

After breakfast of coffee, croissants and more coffee, we were ready to go out, and the short drive to Temple Ewell to see one of the rarer butterflies in Kent, the Silver Spotted Skipper. These emerge on the down at the end of July/beginning of August. All you have to do is find them. Things is this small butterfly doesn't like to fly too high.

We climb up the down, through the woody path and out onto the grassland. Jools settles down to read on her phone and I go hunting for butterflies.

Thing about being up on the down is that is exposed. So was windy. BUt I do see lots of blues. Mainly Chalkhill Blues, but mostly too windy for them to open their wings and bask. But I do find a mating pair, which are fairly stationary, so I snap them from far away, closer, closer and closer still. They were still conjoined, unable to fly.

But no Skippers After two hours give up and we walk back to the car, down the hill. And from there, to the A2 to Bridge, through the village and out to Stone Street, before finally going through picturesque Petham, where one time I will stop to snap it, and onto Denge Woods to check on the errant colony of BLH.

Orchids are variable. In some cases, highly so. And different species can look similar, so after seeing a hybrid there two eyars ago, I had convinced myself it had returned this year.

You can see where this is going, right?

We walk down the woodland gallop, me snapping butterflies as we walk:

Brimstone.

Meadow Brown.

Wall.

Large Skipper.

Large White.

Among many others like, Gatekeepers and Small Whites.

And there were plants too, of course. I snap them too.

Up the slope to the reserve, and seven weedy and pathetic spikes sit beside the track. One had gone to seed, most of the others were in flower, so I set about snapping them all, convincing myself these were very rare hybrids.

Which, as it turned out, they were not.

All that way for the photographs, so we turn round and walk back to the car, snapping more plants and butterflies as we walk.

Back to the car and back home. Home to have coffee. Cookies. Review pictures then have brunch, which is courgette fritters. And wine.

We live well.

There is music on the radio, pictures to review and edit, then get ready to go to Jen's.

But it is also Cup Final day.

Cup Final was the biggest sporting day of the year as a child. Coverage started three hours before the game, Cup Final editions of your favourite game shows, film of the team's buses travelling to the stadium, players on the pitch, interviews, shots of "humorous" banners in the crowd, Abide With Me and then the kick off.

It was just about the only game live on TV then, live on both BBC and ITV. Now it is one of hundreds each year, the Prem is everything and the Cup is an afterthought.

This year it was between Chelsea and Arsenal. Meh. We ask John if he was bothered. He wasn't. Neither was I, so we go to play cards instead. Whilst the game plays out, at Wembley, 90,000 empty seats look on.

We play cards.

I win both games of Meld.

We have pizza and beer for supper. Or I do.

Jen scoops the run jackpot in Queenie. And she is very happy.

When we leave, the near full moon had risen and was attended by both Jupiter and Saturn, though through some whispy clouds. We drive home.