I suppose I could mention that the local thermometers have
an identity crisis and think they’ve suddenly become yo-yos. The temperature
was 26°C when I went to Ashbourne on Wednesday. Today it’s 12°. It’s been doing
that all spring. And the wind has risen to gusts of at least gale force,
showering the garden and my car with a comprehensive layer of seeds, leaves and
bits of dead branch from the nearby sycamore tree. And the sky has turned grey,
grim and gloomy, which makes me miserable.
I suppose I could also mention the mystery of the
disappearing pheasants. I used to have six hens invading my garden and helping
themselves to the food on the bird tables. Now there appears to be only one. My
suspicions incline towards the local foxes.
Further afield, it was amusing to see Biden having to
apologise and go into damage limitation mode over his remark about black
people. And he isn’t even President yet. Shame for all those good Americans
looking for a leader and being faced with a choice between Biden and Trump, both
of whom need to keep the closet door tightly shut, and neither of whom exactly
inspires confidence. But I suppose it’s their fault for giving one person so
much power. We don’t do that sort of thing in Europe.
The American Presidency now resembles a vaudeville warm up routine, and we got over
that with events like the Restoration, the French Revolution, and the defeat of
Hitler. The Russians and Chinese haven’t caught on yet, but maybe they will
eventually.
So there you have it. Nothing to say. Maybe tomorrow.
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