Desolation Day.

I went to Uttoxeter this morning to fill the car with petrol, and could hardly believe how nearly empty it was. There were few cars at the retail park because there were only three units open, and the town itself had only one – dear old Costa Coffee. (I didn’t go in because I don’t trust coffee shops while the Covid statistics are rising to the highest level since the pandemic began. And besides, ever since the unprecedented rise in electricity prices back in October, I’ve been trying to economise because absolutely everything in my house is electric.)

The thing is, though, Boxing Day has always been a big trading day in Britain. Going to the Boxing Day sales after a day spent idling and gorging used to be one of the favourite activities of the holiday season. Not this year, it seems. (I suppose it might have something to do the damn Yankees inventing Black Friday so that people could nearly kill each other over the acquisition of a half price TV set.)

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Back in the Shire, the day can be summed up with a bit of my much-favoured alliteration: it’s dark, dripping, drear, dirty and somewhat desolate. Although the temperature isn’t particularly low by winter standards, the cold, clammy mist is doing a good job of making noses and figures tingle, and the lungs to rebel a little at the amount of water they’re having to absorb. At least mine are.

So that’s it for now. Time for a sandwich and a cuppa soup. I wonder whether I should throw economic caution to the wind and set the fan heater going in my cold living room.