… while I had the chance.
… while I had the chance.
Sitting on the shingle, I washed my hands of a responsibility.
As predicted, I had a lighter journey home.
Yesterday I went bounding off – well, stepping out – and once past the industrial estate the walking was pleasant: a beautiful September day. I was more interested in terraces than in tourism, and the itinerary did not include the pilgrimage destination, the Big House, or the italianate church looking bizarre among chalk and flint cottages.
It did, however, include the local garden centre as a possible watering hole. This was fortunate. I reached the junction named baldly (but exactly) Park Wall, and fell flat on my face, taking the knee out of my favourite walking trousers and myself. The garden centre supplied running water, tea, teacake, and plasters, and the excursion turned into a jigsaw hunt instead.
Found in a charity shop. Once you look, it is amusing to note the subtext of the image: apparently Manhattan residents are even more insular than other island dwellers. 🙂
The image also contains, of course, a great many ghosts.
This gallery contains 9 photos.
After significant wrestling with rugs, curtains, windows, tables, books, boxes, bargains, shoes, and incoming parcels, we got to the serious stuff.
This included corporate creativity in order to adjust the fascinator with two pairs of heavy duty pliers and superglue (a treasurable experience)
and discovering that we female rellies from far-flung places had instinctively colour-co-ordinated ourselves.
The view from the back of the portaloos was the best I have ever seen from a lavatory (the other aspects were good too) and strop didn’t seem to break out until later. All good.
Meantime, writing a level 7 assignment with the other foot … yes, that worked. Writing is agony, but here is a keeper (especially since I discovered that St Menas may have won the Battle of El Alamein):
It was lonely without the sky so in a heavily symbolic act … I may have overbought. It came today,
and I have been using the cathedral spire to align the red dot finder. Can’t see the spire? The scope can. In fact it can count each red warning light and the knobs on the cross on top.
But can it see anything else? Naturally, the moon is rising behind a band of high cloud and has turned itself into a gigantic fuzzball. Isn’t astronomy wonderful?
Yesterday began with being towed backwards across Wiltshire. Then some intensive looking.
Best seen across a vacant lot:
The fullness required many hours, which we were unable to give.
There was something appropriate about the power socket handy for St. Barbara. In case her father needed it?
Finding Dewi Sant was like meeting an old friend…
It was a mistake to take an audio book. The tunnels must be the noisiest on the network: growl, roar, whistle and rattle in one excruciating go.
And there we were again: being towed backwards across Wiltshire.
It isn’t a word really. But a scrubulous weekend is what I had.
I returned to muggy days and sea mists
and scrubbed ten windows, three double sets of glass doors, and a conservatory. Both sides.
The seagulls were eyeing up the gleaming panes, sniggering to themselves. So it seemed a good idea to get in first.
I was a bit surprised by these lacy ones.
Now I am back in the attic nest with a lot of books about icons.
Being underslept, I had difficulty keeping a focus on the official business of the day.
It was distractingly easy to consider munchy ginger fudge, since they keep the fudge shop so handy to the cathedral. I leave it to each reader to decide on the wisdom of this policy. At lunch time thought became action.
A pamphlet: less obviously enticing. I was nonetheless tempted by this distraction, and was only prevented from some old-fashioned reading under the desk by the very small class size and my corresponding visibility.
Part of the day was spent contemplating hand sewing fine hems of muslin. Later I congratulated myself on the prescience which had caused me to pack pins.
And I have missed it.
We trekked slowly over the ankle-breaking flint cobbles, which at this beach are usually an unlovely shade of orange. The sea pinks’ sprightly defiance is always a welcome sight.
Returning, the falling tide made the upper edge of sand available to us, saving our ankles at the cost of having to nip suddenly up the shingle for the seventh wave.
I indulged in a few minutes’ smugness; the jokes about the Epistle of Barnabas don’t seem to have done much harm.