Year of the Pig

I’m bewitched by the birds on the feeder outside my bedroom window.
I’m bothered by Donald Fartypants, and his dismantling of the United States of America.
I’m bewildered by the antics of the British First Lady, who appears to be so out of touch with everything, that words literally fail me
My lawn is covered in leaves.
The moles have decimated the end of the garden, I saw one magpie on my way through Ashdown Forest – an omen I thought – One for sorrow, two for joy. I’m still looking for the second one.
And now I’m hatching a cold.
I’ve got cashmere sox on, a Christmas present. The old git’s lit the stove, so the house is toasty warm. It is smokeless fuel I hasten to add.
I’ve had acupuncture, homeopathic remedies, meditated, chanted, sung with an Indian Guru, and have looked at flights to Florence. I’m joining a choir and starting Tai Chi. I’ve given up coffee but nibble on Granny Beevers Christmas cake which is infused with brandy and the Yorkshire Dales.
I’m enjoying Les Mis, and tolerating Sheryl Smith’s cleaner, I’m reading and writing and watching films.
I’m holding the ‘oosbinds hand in bed and sleeping in the soft dent in my pillow.
2019 has begun, but I am Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, by the ahh! Souls in charge.
Happy new Year.