What these socks of hers say about Clare I am not quite sure, but hey, we’re still married after 22 years (nearly). So tacitly, I guess I approve. (The text on the one on the left starts: “Being an adult is…”; the rest you can work out for yourselves.)
The rain came down, so another exciting weekend day was spent inside, thanks to Our Glorious Leaders still reckoning that indoor entertainment options will cause us all to shrivel with plague, or something. But, won’t this change as of tomorrow? My view is — don’t hold your breath.
And this movie was awful, by the way. I won’t name it. But if you can take what might have been a quite interesting plot twist and still make it as boring as the rest of the day, then that was quite an achievement.
These cards all reside in the foyer of RTQ, the tutoring service from whom Clare rents her room, which we have both been using as something of an escape during lockdown. Thank you indeed. But hey, can we leave home, legally, after Monday? There are rumours.
I don’t pose or stage photos for this blog. But sometimes I do choose them in advance. A year ago today I was walking in the Lake District. When I got home, all had changed. So, today, to mark one year since Bojo the Clown couldn’t decide what else to do and stuck us all under house arrest, here’s a tribute to a certain early 1980s rock album with which some of you may be familiar. The walls must come down, there is no alternative. How this happens is largely up to us: even if Authority will insist it’s up to them.
Nothing happened today at all, except for the news — still unofficial, but it’s looking most promising — that I will be heading off to this rather remote spot at some point in the next few months, for a research project. We got the ‘yeah, OK, we’ll fund that’ email today. And very good news that is too, for all sorts of reasons.
Joe was born on 4th March 2003, so do the sums. Tomorrow he attains his maturity and I shall be the parent of an adult. My oh my.
This has been my life for days, and will be for some time to come. This is not even a Covid thing; this endless increase in my workload is presented as something inevitable, a sign of success even. Four years ago there was a third of this number.
If anyone in the UK has any better ideas for what to do with this Friday evening I’d love to hear them. Have a good weekend y’all.
The world is still out there, somewhere…. so we’ve been told. Across the valley, there’s a house that doesn’t seem to have removed its Christmas lights yet. Meanwhile, at home, the movie collection keeps a semblance of entertainment ticking over.
Less than an hour into the working week and I’m already reaching for these, which is not a good sign. A side effect of screen imprisonment — I doubt I’m not the only one suffering.
Being 42 