* * *
I was checking the state of the grids in my lane, and
remembering those hours spent in the downpours last autumn, clearing the
blockages so as to relieve the road of its role as a temporary river. One of
the Shire residents drove past in his big new something-or-other, stopped, and
said in a tone of great indignation: ‘If this was snow, we wouldn’t be
able to bloody move!’ He seemed to think that it was all somebody's fault.
* * *
The weather has turned a lot milder here. Night temperatures
are about the same as the daytime temperatures were in my kitchen a couple of
weeks ago. The wind remains a bit fresh, however, and the daffodils are ‘fluttering
and – as it were – dancing in the breeze.’ (With credit to Sue Limb. I got that
from her book The Wordsmiths at
Gorsemere, which is very, very funny in parts, though out of print I
think.)
* * *
I’m going to post a letter when I go out for a walk tonight.
That should bring a note of respectability to my nefarious activities. And the
post box is next to the phone box, so I can say ‘hello’ at the same time
without arousing suspicion. Oh, the subterfuge…
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