Yesterday’s transport was well fouled-up, worse for many others than for me, and perhaps it would be insensitive to talk about a Black Hole on wheels. Still, enforced intimacy with the other wedged standees made occasion for the kindness of women, hot news from the Hong Kong riots mingling with sisterly or motherly encouragement for the youngest, late for her interview. Hope she got it.
Falling feverishly out of the train, I encountered more womanly kindness: the church ladies supplying home made scones and tea, jokes, and advice to take five minutes quiet upstairs. It was good advice too, and I wish I could have fitted the whole ceiling into the shot.
The rain held off, the cathedral filled up, the parents did their thing, and one of the nearests-and-dearests shared Emma with me by earbud to mask the announcer, but she left me in the lurch just before the Chancellor’s speech, when I needed Austen the most. The Chancellor read a “poem” – a long poem – what he had wrote. It was … bad. Other excesses of the day included scarlet cloth and purple squiggles (jacquard? brocade? I never know) and a pink tie. And a bonnet.
Today: a forced march in the damp morning to look at a teeny place face-lifted by the upwardly mobile. Is it Destiny or a dud? I have opened a bottle, but so much progress has been made in the kitchen that for a moment I thought it would have to be drunk from a chipped mug or a marmalade jar.
There’s rather a lot for one.
It has been a dismal day; doing something silly was the most readily available anodyne. Luckily a stash of disposable overalls has, for reasons far too complicated to recount, been lurking in the back of a wardrobe for years.
My lack of skill in figurative art came out again in a horrible parody of that lovely weed, the germander speedwell.
But anyway I peacefully devoted half an hour to making myself ridiculous.
Ah the pleasure of the slow stopper:
How one relaxes into the solitude…
Much later, and across the Severn by road, Wales began (as usual) to rain.
A black carpet gives you warning, and blocked plumbing realises your worst fears. One of the nearest-and-dearests reconstituted himself as the Human Plunger and, with a technique never matched except in the most dramatic fake CPR seen in medical soaps, dislodged the sludge. (My hero.) This left us with the problem of walking without touching the carpet (fairly easy) and of sleeping without touching the sheets (fairly difficult).
The event itself involved the usual scrum, with an excellent mitigation: an official quiet room. Here I joined the autistic-spectrum mates and rellies and ate my plate of buffet in peace.
Still too convalescent to put out a cheer for diligence. Backalong, choosing ten bright binders was a good idea, but a better one would have been twenty.
lxxvii : Turn out the understairs cupboard
Why wouldn’t you?
Though nine frames for paint rollers seems excessive. Perhaps they breed too.
I looked on Wikipedia, but, although discoursing on their evolution, flight, reproductive habits etc., the article was obstinately silent about flavour.
Which left me with a question about the elderflowers: to wash, or not to wash? The former removes the pale pollen as well as a good many flies; the latter will keep the pollen, but also more animals will be retained, infusing their possibly noxious juice when I pour the hot syrup over. Ummm.
greenhouse audit. Must have been breeding all winter.
An incoherent day.
Small steps; they look alike until they are all over the wall, and then it’s too late. Test pots good (get the dinky little rollers which – amazingly – actually work).
Sibirica; sometimes only for a single day before they go over.
Charity shop: supposedly 3D, but looking at the individual pieces with their shifting colour makes your eyes go googly. And disassembly is a pig, as the pieces jam together, making the image-bearing plastic delaminate from the cardboard substrate. Really glad it was a Bargain.
… usually a good thing, and enables one to take an upstairs seat on the bus. On this occasion I may have overdone the exiguity.
Perhaps there are socks in the venerable city of Oxford?
The blackbirds love me. Sorting out a hundred little plant pots is bunce for them. Not so for the toad hiding in one of them whose otherwise defunct contents I flicked into the garden.* Bit of a surprise to both of us.
Knitting in your sleep is all very well so long as you don’t start knitting to a previous similar pattern instead of the current one.
Undoing the section wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t for the cabling. Taking the whole jumper back would have been even slower and nearly as difficult.
The tension in panel C is a bit wrecked …
* No toads were harmed in the making of this post.