The trouble with not posting on a blog for while is that I have too much to say, too much to record, and sometimes, make that often, it's easier to draw a line under the passed days and start from wherever I am now.
I have always failed at keeping a paper diary for the same reason. Somehow a blog feels more forgiving. If this survives beyond me, and future family historians try to understand what great-to-the-power-of n Aunt Isobel's life was like, they may well suspect that the silent days were ones where I had nothing more to say than that I got up, had breakfast, fed the cat and frittered away the hours. If so, they will be wrong. In my head, walking along, on the bus, queuing in shops, I compose posts that are never written; posts where I muse on life's beauties and inequities, posts where I opine that the NHS could probably save a small fortune in anti depression medication if only IDS and Michael Gove were barred from speaking in public, or preferably at all, posts where I rail against cruelty to all animals, human and otherwise, posts when I realise that true happiness lies in the perfect poached egg.
Also posts about the Daily Mail, a paper I would go a long way not to read, but whose outrages are often reported elsewhere. A paper from which one might catch something nasty ending in ism. Does it have a purpose in the grand scheme of thing? Perhaps just to remind us of what hell might be like. I suppose Paul Dacre must have his uses, but so far I have not devined what they are. Apparently his staff have suggested his shoes never wear out as he goes from carpeted office to chauffeured car to home with barely any contact with the pavement, or reality. I'd like to think he pays enormous taxes that go towards funding the NHS, but I have a hunch he will have his money stashed in some offshore enterprise that means the exchequer sees little of what he is paid.
The Tory party has not learned from the Strong and Stable backlash, and is still in love with repeating alliterative phrases. The current fave seems to be stability and certainty, though for variety they are happy to use the words singly, then join them like cymbals for effect. I don't know how this goes down with other listeners, but I find I cannot remember a single word of what they have said other than the alliterative pairings, and those I translate as blah blah blah, a cover up for not really knowing what they are talking about. If they can't be bothered to make proper arguments why on earth should the electorate be bothered to listen to them, far less take them seriously?
Last night I caught up with the latest subject of Who do you think you are? For a social history junkie this is compulsive viewing even when I do not know the person going through the tree. This latest was a man called Craig Revel Hall. At least I think that was his name. He's a judge on Strictly it seems, but as I don't watch it he could move in next door to me and be guaranteed privacy and anonymity. He's originally from Australia. The story was a good one, but my own little thrill came when he met up with a clog dancing historian at the Lord Nelson pub in Sydney. I was there! I said excitedly to MasterB who seemed quite underwhelmed by my vicarious brush with fame.
On the way up to das Boot today, for I am once more afloat, I switched between Radio 4 and CDs. IDS, or someone who sounded just like him, was talking about Brexit and I had to switch back to music, especially after he said the British people. Honestly, there should be fines for people who persist in this kind of thing. When Radio 4 became safe again with Moneybox Live, which the late, great Linda Smith described as the worst band she'd ever heard, I hung on, knowing that the Dead Ringers repeat must be next. I used to love this show, but it has slipped down my personal ratings. However I may have to start listening regularly as the Trump stuff is great, and they have him down to a T. I giggled my way along the A11, particularly appreciative of Kellyann Conway being described as Barbie's evil twin.
As we made our way one the bumpy road to the marina I stopped to buy six eggs from Janet. Last time I was east she was holiday in France. We had a bit of a catch up, one of her retrievers mouthed my hand, and I said she should come to das Boot. Not that the weather is seasonal. July seems to have lost its way all of a sudden, but it's dry, warm enough, and the garden canes I have put in the window frames mean I can sleep easy without MasterB taking himself off for an adventure which could end with him in a watery grave. I have lent the life jacket to a Lhasa Apso called Willow, eaten a good dinner and MasterB has had a pee ashore. Today's paper has been fairly thoroughly read, though I have come unstuck in the quick crossword, two men are studying a boat which I have learned is for sale, and the geese with their almost grown goslings are in the field.
So not a day that will be recorded in the history books, but no means one that has been idle or uneventful.