Blowing in the Wind

8.15 and it’s dark.
There are those who complain about shorter days and the onset of winter, but I like the sniff of autumn, and the crunch of curled leaves. Our cottage is designed to be cool in the summer and cosy in the winter, those damn peasants knew what they were doing building granite walls to keep out the heat and keep in the warmth. But I have finally realised that I’m better with the bookends of darkness. Endless light and I’m as louche as Eva Gabor on a sun lounger on Lake Balaton, when the temptation of sunshine is removed all sorts of chores get accomplished from polishing the piano to alphabetasizing the CD’s.
Today we walked in Kings Standing, in the Ashdown Forest full of ferns, heather and gorse, the earth soft from the recent rain. The wind was blowing so loudly the old git had to adjust his earpieces. He used his smart phone to get the optimum setting – music, restaurant or TV – he opted for music. My intention of walking with a conversational companion was shot with every gust as his three thousand pound hearholes were about as useful as Donald Trump’s girdle.
‘Can’t ‘ear you luv.’ said the old git happy in his silence.
The ‘oosbind, now comfortable in the windless car – windless since the passenger window doesn’t work and neither does the air con – drove us to a garden centre with a four hundred year old tree. Three dogs, two young women, an elderly couple almost as old as the tree, and us waited in the warm sunshine for our coffee. When it finally arrived it was cold, so I sent it back. His Cherry Bakewell tart was too sweet and dry whilst my Flapjack was like a day old ‘Metro’ as opposed to a crisp ‘Tatler.’ The newly heated coffee ended up being delicious.
Our little sojourn was a welcome break in the self isolating world in which we find ourselves. We are lucky to have space and green around us so most of the time I don’t even think about Corona, I carry my face mask in the pocket of my dungarees whipping it out when necessary. Some say the second wave is coming, some say Covid will be around forever some say it’ll be gone in two years. Sweden seems to have conquered it. So, to celebrate I called our oldest friend in Malmo. We agreed that when all this nonsense is over he and his wife will jump into their old Volvo and drive over here with a bagful of knackerbread and several bottles of Gamel Dansk, a time honoured Scandinavian anaesthetic.
So now the cat is splayed out on the armchair snoring like an old sailor.
The old git is washing up and the dawter’s upstairs, chilling.
My feet are finally warm after a buttery corn on the cob, baked potato and left over salad supper. There’s nothing on the telly box and the ‘oosbind categorically refuses to play ‘Scrabble’ saying it makes him feel like we’re in an old peoples’ home, just waiting to die. I’ve got a thousand piece jigsaw somebody loaned me at the start of lock down, which I haven’t even opened cos that makes me think I’m in a nursing home and I’ve lost the power of recall.
Dennis has refined his snoring; he now sounds like the old git. I shall watch the news then put on the Spanish series ‘Money Heist’ which is good but it’s been so long since we watched it it’ll inevitably turn into a heated discussion about who did what to whom and why. He’ll suggest that I’ve got early onset dementia and I’ll eat yet another slab of left over cherry cake. Maybe I’ll start that jigsaw after all.