Dull But Lined with Silver.

The low grey sky hung heavy for most of today, dropping copious amounts of wetness on lane and field and those who drove or walked thereon. And it was cold, too – the sort of damp, incisive cold which creeps through any number of insulating layers placed there in forlorn hope of protection. In short, it was a depressing day.

But there were silver linings.

My daughter and one of my granddaughters came to Uttoxeter today where I met them for coffee and pastries, catching up, and convivial companionship. I haven’t seen them since two summers ago, so that was today’s first treat. And I was more than happy to pay for it all since my daughter is currently homeless, courtesy of a Section 21 (no fault) eviction. There are a lot of people in that situation at the moment.

And then I discovered that dear old Uttoxeter has a new charity shop. It’s big, bright, well stocked, smart, and serving a cause which finds great favour with me – the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals (PDSA for short.) It’s a more or less voluntary organisation providing low cost veterinary care to the animals of people trying to eke out their meagre existence on welfare. I believe a contribution of sorts is expected, but it’s still a lot more affordable than the prices charged by commercial practices. So the people have the NHS and the animals have the PDSA. That’s good in my book. Uttoxeter used to have nine charity shops, but the number dwindled to three as the lack of footfall in the high street (a common malaise the length and breadth of Britain) gradually swept two thirds of them away. I try to get as many of my needs as I can from charity shops – because both of us get the benefit – and so I expect the new shop will be receiving patronage from me in the future.

So that’s about it for the end of a mostly dolorous day. Winter cold is beginning to become established here in dear old Blighty, and after several months of feeling comfortable over the summer and early autumn I’m finding it difficult to accept that cold is the new normal. It is ever thus at this time of year, of course, but I’m not getting any younger.

Hot coffee, toast, and Tenant next. Anne Brontë does use an awful lot of words to expound upon matters of relatively little consequence, but I tell myself that decompressed fiction has its merits and perseverance is a virtue.