3,371 days into this blog (nine years, two months and 22 days) and I am buggered if I am going to let this profoundly boring and pointless period see it peter out through sheer lack of interest. But it’s not very interesting, is it. This is the true impact of this bloody virus. It’s made the world so goddamn boring, suddenly. (With no offence meant to my family members, pictured here, who are about the only things that are keeping me sane.)
Nothing about the politics today, no grouching, I promise. Let us just celebrate the peak of autumn. I have pictured this wood before (by now, I’ve pictured most places near my house before), and have always called it the Entwood because here more than anywhere else round here the trees feel like they have feet, that their residence in the ground is temporary.
Clitheroe Castle is at least 910 years old but despite having been in a state of general ruin since the English Civil War, that is the 1640s, it is just about still standing on a spot with a really good view (as castles should have). On our first day of a week off work for the both of us, Clare enjoys said view — ignoring the rain coming in behind.
The plum tree seriously needs pruning, and now is apparently the time…. this information being imparted by Peggy, fellow member of the allotment society and knowledgeable in these matters. Expect some documentation of the subsequent surgery, at least, once we get our pruning saw. Yes, this would be a nicer photo without the water butt, but it is what it is.
The beauty of Cumbria is not entirely found in its lakes and mountains. The coast is also very fine. After a terrible morning’s weather put the high country out of bounds, we got out anyway and Sandscale Haws, near Barrow, gave us something to enjoy as the weather cleared. Joe practices his ballet moves, it seems.
21 years ago today I did not walk down the aisle with Clare, because we didn’t get married in a church: instead the venue for our wedding was the Ashton Memorial in Lancaster. Either way… happy anniversary.
Despite everything, it’s still Friday night, the end of a working week, time to relax. What tattered remnants there are of our social life at this time are up in Old Town, so that’s where we headed, despite it being the wettest day for a long while.
A couple of months ago, at least, we made an arrangement that we would visit my sister Vicki and family today for a Sunday out, let there be dinner, socialising, sunshine etc. This date got sucked into the COVID-19 black hole some time ago.
But thanks to the miracle of videoconferencing, we did our best to find a replacement. Seven family members, including myself, appear on the laptop screen at the back — Joe being the only attendee who cannot be seen. We ate well. It was fun. But it is not and never will be reality, and soon, we would like reality back please.
Some forms of exercise can still be taken out of the house, but not Clare’s weekly ballet class. That’s gone online, and into the bathroom, on this latest public holiday-that-was-not-a-holiday.
I don’t know if I’m the only one having problems uploading pictures to WordPress at the moment: these difficulties explain why these posts are coming out at odd times right now. It’s been a case of when it works, grab the opportunity. Maybe it’s all a consequence of the ongoing hiatus in civilisation…. There must be many groups who are having to come to terms with changed circumstances. What are the inveterate gamblers doing at the moment, I wonder, with no (public) sporting events taking place? We did consider a live sream of our afternoon game of Totopoly. Number 2 did turn out to be the winner — odds of 5/1, don’tcha know. Clare in the background looks excited, as well she might, as she was the owner.
