Nothing Much.

Today was one of those days when you get lots of jobs done but none significant enough to be worth mentioning. (I did try to find something amusing to say about laundering the current bed linen, drying it on the line in the sunshine, and then ironing it, but it was a hopeless cause.) Consequently, I’m struggling to find something to write about.

I suppose I could mention an album of music I’m listening to at the moment. It’s entitled The Definitive Irish Folk Selection. One of the tracks included is Dirty Old Town which is set in Salford, Lancashire, England, and which was written by Ewan MacColl who was born and raised there. I feel a murmuring of doubt coming on as to whether it can be counted as definitively Irish. It also has The Furies’ version of the Eric Bogle anti-war classic No Man’s Land. Eric Bogle is an ex-pat Scot who has spent most of his life domiciled in Australia, and the song is a damning indictment of the horrors and futility of The Great War, a war in which Ireland remained neutral. It’s a splendidly moving song, one of my favourites, and I’ve heard several versions of it, but The Furies’ rendition is the one I like least.

And then there was the noisy bunch of ragamuffins who rudely disturbed my twilight communion with the natural denizens of the Shire. (I think I might have mentioned that nearly everything of note that happens to me… OK; already done that one.) I gather there was a ‘communal walk’ arranged for the locals today and I assume these were of it. I retired to the bottom of my garden and scowled at them while they passed, whereupon I swear I heard one of the women call ‘Hello, Jeff.’ I’ve no idea who it was, but I was glad to see that they weren’t bearing pitchforks and burning brands. They seemed like the sort who would be in the van of the ravening mob when the time comes.

My bed linen was plain and pale blue, by the way. I do hope somebody noticed.