Marching against the windbag.

Roman Road, in the Ashdown Forest, was hard soiled. My Nordic Poles couldn’t smash through the ice. The leaves crinkled and the sun so low I couldn’t really see the view, which was tweedy brown and gorse yellow. My wooly gloves were of no use, but my four layers of fleeces, sweaters and armless puffiness did the trick.
I bought three bags of kindling, since the old git’s an actor at the Arcola at the moment, so any wood chopping or fire laying rests with me. I know how to deal with a chopper but buying a bag of split wood is easier.
The bird feeders go down in a day and the squirrels are unearthing acorns in the front garden.
January has given us 19 days, each one closer to the inauguration of the President Erect. Each day one step closer to a reality that befalls us all. I’m going on the Women’s Only march on Saturday, first demo I’ve been on in years. I shall be wearing my pink pussy hat with pride, if I can get it knitted in time.
My favourite typo this year:
Mother texting her daughter: What do you want from life?
Daughter has an existential crisis. Thinking, reflecting and worrying that she doesn’t know what she wants from life.
Mother texts again: Sorry love, effing predictive text, should had said what do you want from Lidl.
See you on the march.