Sometimes it is easier to understand what is happening by examining the front pages to see which papers are reporting on the latest scandal(s) and which are not.
As I pointed out, it seem the Express is fully behind Johnson after failing to report the Cummings issue of the flat refurbishment on Friday, whereas it seems that Johnson called the editors of the Mail, Times and Torygraph to personally point the finger of blame for leaks at his former aide, Cummings.
Three days on, and it seems the Mail has turned, by leading with a story that he would rather let bodies pile up in their thousands than agree to a further lockdown. This is telling, for the first time one of the hard right, Tory supporting papers turning on "their man", Johnson.
The Times is still going with Cummings is the "rat", the Express is screaming that there is nothing to see here, just get on with the good(!) work and stop asking pesky questions and the Torygraph leads with an Editorial that the allegations are unlikely to stick because they come from Labour.
Not much about the allegations themselves that have issues involving political donations, possible tax-evasion (by the PM) and yet more lying on the record.
And at the middle is the worry, from Cimmings, that activities undertake for Vote Leave would lead him to prison, and that Johnson turned on the person he protected last year over the Nation's health, quite a turn round.
That they are both liars, and that accepting the word of a newspaper we have villified for months, years makes the situation hard to assess. What we do know is that ummings and various Civil Servants are to appear before committees this week, and there is no telling if Cummings or anyone else will thrown themselves under the bus to protect Johnson.
Art the root of it, is a PM who has gotten away with lying all his life, Vote Leave who lied and broke election law to win, and not only got away with it, are now in Government.
It might all fizzle out, as will the PPE scandal, the moeny spent, track and trace, the cost of lockdowns, the people who died because of Johnson's decisions or lack of them.
And if the Mail has knoves out for Johnson, who is their stalking horse. Of course, Michael Gove's wife just happens to write for the Mail.......
Monday, 26 April 2021
Sunday, 25 April 2021
Saturday 24th April 2021
The weekend.
The sun shone.
The wind dropped.
It felt warm.
Heck, it was warm.
And there was a whole day to play with, off orchiding or maybe churchcrawling or even both.
The plan was to go to Marden Meadows first, then Stockbury and finally back to Yocklett's, and then see how we felt.
Marden Meadows is a speacial reserve, a freshwater meadow, and filled with Green Winged Orchids and many other rare plants and flowers all through the year. Orchids just at the end of April and into May though. And it is a hike, or a drive.
After coffee, we load the car with cameras, a bottle of squash and two slices of cornbread, and off we set, leaving home at half seven. The drive took us through Dover, to Folkestone, then up the M20, and once past Ashford, we could see the Brexit lorry park which now takes up all of the coastbound side of the motorway. There were no queues, and it seemed to be working well. Indeed, driving through Dover coincided with the disgorging of a ferry, and there were dozens of lorries we passed as we drove along, so some kind of normal has retuend, though some 15% down year on year.
Anyway, less about Brexit.
We turn off at Leeds, not that one, but the Kent one, along the main road that threads its way through the village, past the church and up the down, parked cars on either side making travel both ways impossible, we have to wait until there were gaps before moving off again. There is talk of a relief road, but some places were just not designed for the modern world, and maybe it would be better if we just travelled less? I know I am writing about two people driving across the county in a five seater car to look at some flowers. If there was an alternative, we would use it.
Along the B road that doubles as a main road/rat run, to Linton, then down the long steep hill onto the expanse of the Kent Weald, one fnal leap over the railway, a sharp turn to the left and along for a mile, and there is the reserve.
It is early in the season, but I had seen shots from the day before saying there were a few dozen spikes partly in flower, the remaining thens of thousands would follow in a week or so. We parked up, paid for parking by phone, I got the camera out and we walked into the first meadow, though that was empty, so far, of any orchids.
Into the main meadow, and although I see now spikes showing, I know that a few small ones were there. So I set off on one of the paths across the meadow, and sure enough here and there were splashes of purple, showing were orchid spikes were emerging.
I bend down to take shots of a few, though we are here really in pilgrimage to one of the finest sights in Kent, though it won't be in full effect for about ten days or so. I remember that it is nearly two years since we were last here, as in 2020, travel, like so much, was frounded upon during the early season, but if that was the worse we had to suffer, then we got off light.
Above us was a clear blue sky, the winds were light, and it was warm enough to go without a jacket, which was rather nice.
I emt up with Jools on the other side, we walk back to the gate into the first meadow, and then back to the car. I guess we had been there half an hour, but that was enough, and we will be back.
We get in the car and munch on cold cornbread, which is better cold as it turned out.
Then drive to Staplehurst, then back up to Linton and to Leeds to get back to the motorway so to avoid the one way system around and through Maidstone.
Across the motoway and up Bluebell Hill across Pilgrims Way, turning off down a narrow lane, leaving the thick traffic behnd.
We park at the bottom of the hill, and walk carrying three cameras up the lane to the reserve at the top, limboing under the gate and into a seas of blue.
Truth is, peak bluebell isn't quite here yet, but the sight is so impressive. We take the path through the tickest part of the bluebells, stopping every few steps to take snaps.
A little further on are a few scattered Early Purple Orchids, looking majestic among the bluebells, and mostly fully in flower.
At the top of where the path tumbles down the down, two spikes of pure white bluebells nod in the breeze, perfect to take a load of shots.
Down into the meadow, I find three rosettes of Lesser Butterfly, looking very healthy, and signs that the population is thriving from the single plant there three years ago.
Further along are a host of Lady, but not yet in flower, none even have the top of their spikes emerging from the sheathing leaves.
Soon, my friends, very soon.
Back to the car, and we detour to Faversham as Jools wanted to buy some plants from a place there, so we find it along the A2, I wait in the car while she shops, I would have bought so much more.
Our final run is to Yocklett's, back to the A2 and to the other side of Canterbury, through Bridge and then to Stone Street, down to Stelling, and along the quiet lane, only to find MY parking space occupied, but then it was after lunch, the latest we had ever been to the reserve.
We park at the bottom, which is good, as the bank of what counts as the main road, is a nursary of wonderful wild and escaped cultivars, all on a sun-kissed bank: green alkanet, Yellow Archangle (though the varigated variety), White deadnettle, Greater Stitchwort among others.
Up the Gogway to the reserve entrance, heading forst to the right to the lower meadow, in the hope of seeing Green Hairstreak on the wing, but none seen. And no Fly Orchid in flower either, though some were close, but not lose enough. I do see a few Brimstones and Orange Tips, though none settle to be able to photograph.
We walk back down the hill, over the Gogway to the other side, and up the bank, checking on the Herb Paris, Lady, Greater Butterfly and Townhall Clock Plants. All there, but none in flower. Yet.
At the top of the bank, the air filled with the scent of wild garlic which fills the floor of the woodland just a bit further on.
This is spring.
Butterflies are everywhere, but none settle where I can find them, only for, finally, a female Brimstone lands, only for me to have my camera on the wrong setting, f3.5, so the shots are overexposed and cannot be saved.
Sigh.
We walk through the bluebell wood, down past the badger set, to the cleared area where the Lady are well advanced, but not that far. One Lady had the red top of her spike exposed, but nont in flower. Yet.
We walk back to the road, then down the hill to the car, to drive back to Petham, then to Bridge and onto the A2 to home, arriving home at two, an hour before the football was due to start.
I had managed to jarr my toe whilst chasing a butterfly, so it throbbed, too much like gout for my liking, so I rested up.
Norwich were playing away at QPR, and if Watford didn't win, and we did, we would be champions. City won 3-1, but Watford won by a penalty, so the quest goes on to next week.
Oh well.
That meant Watford are also promoted with us.
So it goes.
I watch some football, can't remember who, so can't have been good. We have caprese and the remainder of the cornbread for supper, and I have a red wine spritzer, to see what happened. What happened is that I didn't finish it, sipping it through the evening.
But I had no ill effects, so all good.
Jools beats me at Scrabble, while I try to watch the Sheffield Utd game, but give up shortly after half time.
The sun shone.
The wind dropped.
It felt warm.
Heck, it was warm.
And there was a whole day to play with, off orchiding or maybe churchcrawling or even both.
The plan was to go to Marden Meadows first, then Stockbury and finally back to Yocklett's, and then see how we felt.
Marden Meadows is a speacial reserve, a freshwater meadow, and filled with Green Winged Orchids and many other rare plants and flowers all through the year. Orchids just at the end of April and into May though. And it is a hike, or a drive.
After coffee, we load the car with cameras, a bottle of squash and two slices of cornbread, and off we set, leaving home at half seven. The drive took us through Dover, to Folkestone, then up the M20, and once past Ashford, we could see the Brexit lorry park which now takes up all of the coastbound side of the motorway. There were no queues, and it seemed to be working well. Indeed, driving through Dover coincided with the disgorging of a ferry, and there were dozens of lorries we passed as we drove along, so some kind of normal has retuend, though some 15% down year on year.
Anyway, less about Brexit.We turn off at Leeds, not that one, but the Kent one, along the main road that threads its way through the village, past the church and up the down, parked cars on either side making travel both ways impossible, we have to wait until there were gaps before moving off again. There is talk of a relief road, but some places were just not designed for the modern world, and maybe it would be better if we just travelled less? I know I am writing about two people driving across the county in a five seater car to look at some flowers. If there was an alternative, we would use it.
Along the B road that doubles as a main road/rat run, to Linton, then down the long steep hill onto the expanse of the Kent Weald, one fnal leap over the railway, a sharp turn to the left and along for a mile, and there is the reserve.
It is early in the season, but I had seen shots from the day before saying there were a few dozen spikes partly in flower, the remaining thens of thousands would follow in a week or so. We parked up, paid for parking by phone, I got the camera out and we walked into the first meadow, though that was empty, so far, of any orchids.
Into the main meadow, and although I see now spikes showing, I know that a few small ones were there. So I set off on one of the paths across the meadow, and sure enough here and there were splashes of purple, showing were orchid spikes were emerging.
I bend down to take shots of a few, though we are here really in pilgrimage to one of the finest sights in Kent, though it won't be in full effect for about ten days or so. I remember that it is nearly two years since we were last here, as in 2020, travel, like so much, was frounded upon during the early season, but if that was the worse we had to suffer, then we got off light.
Above us was a clear blue sky, the winds were light, and it was warm enough to go without a jacket, which was rather nice.I emt up with Jools on the other side, we walk back to the gate into the first meadow, and then back to the car. I guess we had been there half an hour, but that was enough, and we will be back.
We get in the car and munch on cold cornbread, which is better cold as it turned out.Then drive to Staplehurst, then back up to Linton and to Leeds to get back to the motorway so to avoid the one way system around and through Maidstone.
Across the motoway and up Bluebell Hill across Pilgrims Way, turning off down a narrow lane, leaving the thick traffic behnd.
We park at the bottom of the hill, and walk carrying three cameras up the lane to the reserve at the top, limboing under the gate and into a seas of blue.Truth is, peak bluebell isn't quite here yet, but the sight is so impressive. We take the path through the tickest part of the bluebells, stopping every few steps to take snaps.
A little further on are a few scattered Early Purple Orchids, looking majestic among the bluebells, and mostly fully in flower.
At the top of where the path tumbles down the down, two spikes of pure white bluebells nod in the breeze, perfect to take a load of shots.Down into the meadow, I find three rosettes of Lesser Butterfly, looking very healthy, and signs that the population is thriving from the single plant there three years ago.
Further along are a host of Lady, but not yet in flower, none even have the top of their spikes emerging from the sheathing leaves.
Soon, my friends, very soon.
Back to the car, and we detour to Faversham as Jools wanted to buy some plants from a place there, so we find it along the A2, I wait in the car while she shops, I would have bought so much more.
Our final run is to Yocklett's, back to the A2 and to the other side of Canterbury, through Bridge and then to Stone Street, down to Stelling, and along the quiet lane, only to find MY parking space occupied, but then it was after lunch, the latest we had ever been to the reserve.
We park at the bottom, which is good, as the bank of what counts as the main road, is a nursary of wonderful wild and escaped cultivars, all on a sun-kissed bank: green alkanet, Yellow Archangle (though the varigated variety), White deadnettle, Greater Stitchwort among others.
Up the Gogway to the reserve entrance, heading forst to the right to the lower meadow, in the hope of seeing Green Hairstreak on the wing, but none seen. And no Fly Orchid in flower either, though some were close, but not lose enough. I do see a few Brimstones and Orange Tips, though none settle to be able to photograph.
We walk back down the hill, over the Gogway to the other side, and up the bank, checking on the Herb Paris, Lady, Greater Butterfly and Townhall Clock Plants. All there, but none in flower. Yet.
At the top of the bank, the air filled with the scent of wild garlic which fills the floor of the woodland just a bit further on.
This is spring.
Butterflies are everywhere, but none settle where I can find them, only for, finally, a female Brimstone lands, only for me to have my camera on the wrong setting, f3.5, so the shots are overexposed and cannot be saved.
Sigh.
We walk through the bluebell wood, down past the badger set, to the cleared area where the Lady are well advanced, but not that far. One Lady had the red top of her spike exposed, but nont in flower. Yet.
We walk back to the road, then down the hill to the car, to drive back to Petham, then to Bridge and onto the A2 to home, arriving home at two, an hour before the football was due to start.
I had managed to jarr my toe whilst chasing a butterfly, so it throbbed, too much like gout for my liking, so I rested up.
Norwich were playing away at QPR, and if Watford didn't win, and we did, we would be champions. City won 3-1, but Watford won by a penalty, so the quest goes on to next week.
Oh well.
That meant Watford are also promoted with us.
So it goes.
I watch some football, can't remember who, so can't have been good. We have caprese and the remainder of the cornbread for supper, and I have a red wine spritzer, to see what happened. What happened is that I didn't finish it, sipping it through the evening.
But I had no ill effects, so all good.
Jools beats me at Scrabble, while I try to watch the Sheffield Utd game, but give up shortly after half time.
No new fans to win over
In a past life, I was a geophysical engineer, and in 2007 I spent 5 months working in Indonesia, sailing around, looking for oil, watching whales and taking snaps of sunsets.
The crew was mostly Indonesian, some young, educated and in love with all this Premier League.
The guy I was friendly with was an Arsenal fan.
Well, this isn't quite true, as he was a Thierry Henry fan, and was going to support Arsenal as long as Henry played for them. When Henry left, he would follow the player and support his new team.
He wore an Arsenal shirt every shoft, so must have had more than one, but these were knock-offs, bought in a market or maybe a sports shop that sold immitations of the £50 ones we bought home. Not a penny of that short went to Arsenal.
Neither did TV rights, as Premier League was either on free to air, or if on subscription TV they would go to a bar or watch a pirate stream.
And this is the truth about the "new" fans the ESL were planning on abandoning their "legacy" fans for; the poorest people, and least able to pay for the right to watch the team they support.
I can remember Man Utd once claiming they had half a billion worldwide fans, based on social media interactions. But most can't afford to spend anything on the club, their support, though is welcome, in finacial terms, is meaningless. Casting aside current wealthy matchgoing fans to chase some imaginary army of monied fans around the world is a foo's errand, but if the elete clubs want to do this, to upset their very base support.
Fuck 'em.
The crew was mostly Indonesian, some young, educated and in love with all this Premier League.
The guy I was friendly with was an Arsenal fan.
Well, this isn't quite true, as he was a Thierry Henry fan, and was going to support Arsenal as long as Henry played for them. When Henry left, he would follow the player and support his new team.
He wore an Arsenal shirt every shoft, so must have had more than one, but these were knock-offs, bought in a market or maybe a sports shop that sold immitations of the £50 ones we bought home. Not a penny of that short went to Arsenal.
Neither did TV rights, as Premier League was either on free to air, or if on subscription TV they would go to a bar or watch a pirate stream.
And this is the truth about the "new" fans the ESL were planning on abandoning their "legacy" fans for; the poorest people, and least able to pay for the right to watch the team they support.
I can remember Man Utd once claiming they had half a billion worldwide fans, based on social media interactions. But most can't afford to spend anything on the club, their support, though is welcome, in finacial terms, is meaningless. Casting aside current wealthy matchgoing fans to chase some imaginary army of monied fans around the world is a foo's errand, but if the elete clubs want to do this, to upset their very base support.
Fuck 'em.
Not out of trouble yet
John Hopkins University, who has been tracking COVID, announced that yesterday was the deadliest day of the pandemic thus far. SO the question we really should be asking our Government is, is now the right time to be letting our guard down?
In London yesterday, the largest anti-masking and anti-vaxx demonstration showed how anti-science is getting through.
Acts like these will act as super-spreading events, just as the warm sun of spring should be welcoming us back to some kind of normality. It still might, this might just be COVID's Battle of the Buldge, one last firefight before being defeated. But, with the virus rampaging through the sub-continent, the chances of more vaccine-resistant mutations are possible or even likely. Then we will all be back at square one.
This could have been prevented by opening up the vaccine patents, and getting the whole world vaccinated and protected, but Big Pharma wanted their pound of flesh, even though tax-payers part-funded the research, and Governments like here in the UK or US wanted vaccine nationalism. Much more blood on Johnson's hands over this.
Stay safe, people.
Meanwhile, there is talk of further unlocking, trial restriction-free events, while tens of thousands die on a daily basis in India. Seems obscene to me.
In London yesterday, the largest anti-masking and anti-vaxx demonstration showed how anti-science is getting through.
Acts like these will act as super-spreading events, just as the warm sun of spring should be welcoming us back to some kind of normality. It still might, this might just be COVID's Battle of the Buldge, one last firefight before being defeated. But, with the virus rampaging through the sub-continent, the chances of more vaccine-resistant mutations are possible or even likely. Then we will all be back at square one.
This could have been prevented by opening up the vaccine patents, and getting the whole world vaccinated and protected, but Big Pharma wanted their pound of flesh, even though tax-payers part-funded the research, and Governments like here in the UK or US wanted vaccine nationalism. Much more blood on Johnson's hands over this.
Stay safe, people.
Meanwhile, there is talk of further unlocking, trial restriction-free events, while tens of thousands die on a daily basis in India. Seems obscene to me.
Saturday, 24 April 2021
Friday 23rd April 2021
St George's Day. England and Georgia.
Some people online getting upset by hostorians pointing out that St George wasn't English nor probably existed.
Apparently, the truth is unpatriotic.
So it goes, so it goes.
Let me stress, I love my country on the other 364 days of the year, and no more on the other one. It's people and properity are more important to me that some "saint". Anyway, the real English saint is St Edmund.
But it is Friday, anyway, and the weekend starts in something like six hours.
So, lets get it on!
And somehow I sleep through the alarm, Jools getting up, feeding the cats, making a brew and going out for a walk after getting dressed. I wake up at six twenty with the house empty, but the coffee pot ready to go, so I put on the hob and in five minutes I has coffee.
I get dressed and am logged on ready to go at seven, though my head full of wool. But there is little urgent action needed.
Jools comes back, then goes out to go to Tesco and then to Jen's, so I make a second brew, make breakfast then join the weekly COVID department meeting. HAlf our department works in CHennai in India, and it is grim, though they try to make light of it again. It might be worse in the north of the country, but most now only leave home when they have to. And there is nothing I or our boss can do, other than to say, "keep safe". Sounds so trite.
I have more meetings, and calls so the morning slips by. Jools returned at eleven, we pack the shopping away, I warm up a pasty each for lunch, and after two final calls before one, at which point I think the weeknd had started, so close the laptop.
Phew.
Jen was coming round for dinner and cards, so in preparation I made some cornbread, following an online recipe. It looked it came out well, but when I cook the boiled chicken, bacon and rice would we try it.
Not so much bread as cake, but savoury enough to be very nice indeed, even if the chicken and rice didn't look pretty, but tasted OK.
Once we had tidied up, washed up and I had failed in the music quiz, we played two hands of Meld, Jen and Jools winning one each, me just making up the numbers.
And that was that.
Some people online getting upset by hostorians pointing out that St George wasn't English nor probably existed.
Apparently, the truth is unpatriotic.
So it goes, so it goes.
Let me stress, I love my country on the other 364 days of the year, and no more on the other one. It's people and properity are more important to me that some "saint". Anyway, the real English saint is St Edmund.
But it is Friday, anyway, and the weekend starts in something like six hours.So, lets get it on!
And somehow I sleep through the alarm, Jools getting up, feeding the cats, making a brew and going out for a walk after getting dressed. I wake up at six twenty with the house empty, but the coffee pot ready to go, so I put on the hob and in five minutes I has coffee.
I get dressed and am logged on ready to go at seven, though my head full of wool. But there is little urgent action needed.
Jools comes back, then goes out to go to Tesco and then to Jen's, so I make a second brew, make breakfast then join the weekly COVID department meeting. HAlf our department works in CHennai in India, and it is grim, though they try to make light of it again. It might be worse in the north of the country, but most now only leave home when they have to. And there is nothing I or our boss can do, other than to say, "keep safe". Sounds so trite.
I have more meetings, and calls so the morning slips by. Jools returned at eleven, we pack the shopping away, I warm up a pasty each for lunch, and after two final calls before one, at which point I think the weeknd had started, so close the laptop.Phew.
Jen was coming round for dinner and cards, so in preparation I made some cornbread, following an online recipe. It looked it came out well, but when I cook the boiled chicken, bacon and rice would we try it.
Once we had tidied up, washed up and I had failed in the music quiz, we played two hands of Meld, Jen and Jools winning one each, me just making up the numbers.
And that was that.
Death-eaters to eat each other.
On Thursday, Number 10 blamed former Aide Dominic Cummings for a leak.
Cummings might not be the walking brain he thinks he is, but he has a filing cabinet of shit on his former boss, Boris Johnson.
It is possible JOhnson circumvented rules to get the private flat at 10 Downing Street decorated by using donations, or it was paid some other way. In a short statement, Number 10 stated that Johnson had paid the £55,000 bill himself. That's quite some wallpaper.
On top of this, Cimmings accused Johnson of pulling reports and his girlfriend having undue influence.
That their relationship has gone from Johnson defending Cummings driving from London to Durham and so break lockdown guidelines, if not laws, to them briefing at each other.
And how this will play out is anyone's guess, and when will the editors of the press turn on his. The Express are onside as they failed to memtion on their front page, the rest did, however.
In order to divert attention, Downing Street released a video of the success of the vacination campaign, that they said a few weeks ago would not be realsed.
The dead cat did not bounce high enough.
Cummings might not be the walking brain he thinks he is, but he has a filing cabinet of shit on his former boss, Boris Johnson.
It is possible JOhnson circumvented rules to get the private flat at 10 Downing Street decorated by using donations, or it was paid some other way. In a short statement, Number 10 stated that Johnson had paid the £55,000 bill himself. That's quite some wallpaper.
On top of this, Cimmings accused Johnson of pulling reports and his girlfriend having undue influence.
That their relationship has gone from Johnson defending Cummings driving from London to Durham and so break lockdown guidelines, if not laws, to them briefing at each other.
And how this will play out is anyone's guess, and when will the editors of the press turn on his. The Express are onside as they failed to memtion on their front page, the rest did, however.
In order to divert attention, Downing Street released a video of the success of the vacination campaign, that they said a few weeks ago would not be realsed.
The dead cat did not bounce high enough.
Friday, 23 April 2021
Thursday 22nd April 2021
Thursday.
All day.
And it is Jools' last day of work of the week, but not mine.
It was to be a glorious, if cool day, as before, but there was thestrong chance I would go out for a walk at some point. Maybe later.
I did sleep through the alarm once again, something I never used to do, so once I do stir, Jools had already been busy, feeding the cats, making coffee and once I was up, making the beds too.
At least I didn't have long to wait before work started, so I make a second brew and fire up the laptop to see what fresh hell work had to throw at me.
News was that work was OK, I just had three hours of meetings during the day, and two were related to data analysis. And oddly, I like such tasks, so its not all bad, but this would be on top of all the other tasks i have to do, and the estimate was for three days per month, the first three days, given over to this.
Eeek.
IN meetings I sound like I know what I'm talking about, though in reality most of it is guesswork, but they seem stasifed with my answers, and had some knowledge.
Wonders never cease.
I have breakfast with yet another coffee, and carry on working.
Lunch comes, I have the remainder of the sourdough bread, cut into slices, toasted, with cheese then used as spoons to eat the remainder of a tin of baked beans.
Classy.
There are two meetings in the afternoon, the last one ending at half three, meaning I can spring up, grab a coat, squeeze my walking shoes on and am all cameraed up and out the door in nearly ten minutes.
I don't go far, just along the street to the footpath, up that to check on the comfrey which is taking over the banks on either side of the path itself. It is Russian Comfrey, and is a favourite of the bees, who are swarming all over it. Swarming, well, crawling, drink on pollen and nectar.
Along Collingwood and out into the country. My foot seemed OK, but there was still a tightness, though I was able to tie the laces to their usual tightness, and not cause me to wince.
I walk to Fleet House, past the pig's copse, which is still pigless, unusual for this late in the year, and take the right turn down Norway Drove to look at The Dip, and take shots for its online fan club.
Shadows are lengthening, but it is bright. And dry. The mud at the bottom has turned to concrete.
That done, I turn from home, walking back past Fleet House, under the canpopy of branches with leaves just opening, and baying horses asking for some hay or attention.
Back home in time to make dinner. We were supposed to go out for a walk, but my foot was throbbing, and as I had done an hour, that would have to do, and as it turned out, Jools had dropped a colleague off at work on the way home, so she was late in coming home and hungry.
I make fritters, flavoured with curry powder, tumeric, pepper, orange juice and zest. I also add the leftover chorizo, chopped into small cubes.
The mix pade a large bowl of batter, which I fry in spoonful amounds, the curry powder turning the oil yellow, and filling the house with fine smells.
I was tempted by a glass of wine, but decide against it as my toe throbbed. I'm not cured yet, so have squash again.
We eat. Clear up. Make coffee. Listen to the radio.
No football to follow, watch or listen to. Just music, until I climb the wooden hill to bed.
All day.
And it is Jools' last day of work of the week, but not mine.
It was to be a glorious, if cool day, as before, but there was thestrong chance I would go out for a walk at some point. Maybe later.
I did sleep through the alarm once again, something I never used to do, so once I do stir, Jools had already been busy, feeding the cats, making coffee and once I was up, making the beds too.
At least I didn't have long to wait before work started, so I make a second brew and fire up the laptop to see what fresh hell work had to throw at me.News was that work was OK, I just had three hours of meetings during the day, and two were related to data analysis. And oddly, I like such tasks, so its not all bad, but this would be on top of all the other tasks i have to do, and the estimate was for three days per month, the first three days, given over to this.
Eeek.IN meetings I sound like I know what I'm talking about, though in reality most of it is guesswork, but they seem stasifed with my answers, and had some knowledge.
Wonders never cease.I have breakfast with yet another coffee, and carry on working.
Lunch comes, I have the remainder of the sourdough bread, cut into slices, toasted, with cheese then used as spoons to eat the remainder of a tin of baked beans.
Classy.There are two meetings in the afternoon, the last one ending at half three, meaning I can spring up, grab a coat, squeeze my walking shoes on and am all cameraed up and out the door in nearly ten minutes.
I don't go far, just along the street to the footpath, up that to check on the comfrey which is taking over the banks on either side of the path itself. It is Russian Comfrey, and is a favourite of the bees, who are swarming all over it. Swarming, well, crawling, drink on pollen and nectar.Along Collingwood and out into the country. My foot seemed OK, but there was still a tightness, though I was able to tie the laces to their usual tightness, and not cause me to wince.
I walk to Fleet House, past the pig's copse, which is still pigless, unusual for this late in the year, and take the right turn down Norway Drove to look at The Dip, and take shots for its online fan club.
Shadows are lengthening, but it is bright. And dry. The mud at the bottom has turned to concrete.That done, I turn from home, walking back past Fleet House, under the canpopy of branches with leaves just opening, and baying horses asking for some hay or attention.
Back home in time to make dinner. We were supposed to go out for a walk, but my foot was throbbing, and as I had done an hour, that would have to do, and as it turned out, Jools had dropped a colleague off at work on the way home, so she was late in coming home and hungry.
I make fritters, flavoured with curry powder, tumeric, pepper, orange juice and zest. I also add the leftover chorizo, chopped into small cubes.
The mix pade a large bowl of batter, which I fry in spoonful amounds, the curry powder turning the oil yellow, and filling the house with fine smells.
I was tempted by a glass of wine, but decide against it as my toe throbbed. I'm not cured yet, so have squash again.
We eat. Clear up. Make coffee. Listen to the radio.
No football to follow, watch or listen to. Just music, until I climb the wooden hill to bed.
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