A glass of chilled wine as the breeze picks up and the evening cools. It’s been hot today. I’ve drunk more than two litres of water, and shall drink more before I sleep. I am going for an early night. MasterB is currently stretched out on the bed, enjoying the air coming through the open door. Last night it was quite busy here, and I had already cleaned my teeth when he let me know that it was quiet enough for a perambulation. So I carried him ashore rather than risk my heart lurching as he leapt from the front of the boat, and once I’d got him in his harness we perambulated. Actually we stayed still for quite a lot of the time. Cats seem to like to drink in their surroundings, it’s quite boring when you are at the other end of the leash. Then there are spurts of activity, determined movements in directions I do not want to go. I hoped he’d have a poo, or at least a pee, but he saved the latter until he was back on board. I just hope he isn’t saving the poo for the journey home.
Toady, when it has been hot, he has spent most of his time under the rug in the forecabin, a rug that is supposed to save the upholstery from fur and claws. Sometimes he and I are not on the same page. The forecabin was bathed in sunshine. Surely it must have been horribly hot, but he stayed there until around five this evening, when he emerged, like Mole taking a break from spring cleaning, and blinked dazedly about him.
Shamed by my new neighbours (who set off after breakfast and have not been seen since), I felt I had to do some boat cleaning. The hot sun soon had my face running with sweat. Not wanting to disturb the grebes I didn’t want it to use the water pump and power hose. So my efforts, which were mighty but without great results, came to an end after an hour, and I retreated to the shower. I had already visited the big city, well a large village, and bought my newspaper, so after an early lunch I reclined and worked my way through pages of newsprint.
I knew, indeed how could I not? that Donald J Trump is coming to London this week. What I had not understood was how many members of his family he is bringing with him. This is less a state visit, more an invasion. I do hope they all have return tickets. Prince Charles and Camilla seem to have drawn the short straw and are spending a lot of time with Family Trump. I worked with a Trump supporter last week, and one day was enough to exhaust me.
Fortunately I now have images of fields seamed with red poppies, the grebes, every colour of green on the spectrum in the hedgerows and lanes, and my book, to sustain me. My book is The Wife’s Tale by Aida Edemariam. It recently won the Ondaatje Prize and I can see why. My Friend Who Is Deservedly Celebrated Author recommended it. Thanks M.
I have just noticed that my arms have already acquired their dusting of freckles which means I need to get into a sleeveless top without delay to avoid builders’ tan, tan in my case being a darker shade of white. My legs, in shorts in honour of the marina, are of a white rarely seen outside Persil adverts, while my face is a pink that will change to red at the least increase of temperature or exertion. Added to that that I have a cold, and my nose and upper lip are a deeper pink. Lovely in a rose, less lovely in a face. Mycold has passed through the sore throat stage and is now on the outer reaches, some coughing, nose running like a tap, as my body ejects the contagion. Being dairy free, I can still breathe without hindrance, but it is a bit of a bore.
There was a match today between two football clubs, Liverpool and Tottenham. It’s the Champions’ League Final. I had forgotten about it, my interest in football being low, but when I was buying my paper, some men in the queue ahead of me were arguing passionately and loudly about it. One was heading for London where he intended to watch it on a Big Screen. It decided me that tonight I shall stay in the wilds of Cambridgeshire. Loudly celebrating or commiserating football fans are definitely something best avoided.
I hope I shall get back here before the grebes have abandoned their nest. They are so stoical, sitting there all hours, in full sunshine, then the cool of the night. My idyll has been interrupted with calls from people wanting me to take on work, which is much better than no calls, but I shall have to check my diary and see when I can next reasonably expect to escape the Smoke.
Amusing that what you call a “builder’s tan” we call a “farmer’s tan”. Turning the calendar page this morning from what I presume is a sample of Master B in his citadel to what strikes me as pure kitty cheesecake with him staring boldly back at the camera. He does seem to have you well trained.
Oh, I think that might be what we call it as well!
Yes, May’s photo was of the Boy in the middle of a collapsing citadel. I had to wait until I came home to see what June’s was, he is als afloat in that photo.
Just checked and the term here is farmer’s tan. I made the builder’s tan up. Sorry.
As long as you weren’t think of a Plumber’s Crack, I think you are just fine. Speaking of which, hope you get a chance to be in the streets – and I don’t mean for work – in the next few days.
That’s builder’s bum.
Trying to keep away from your First family as much as possible. Fortunately, I don’t believe Walworth is on their itinerary. I wouldn’t even watch the news last night because I knew it would be full of references to that ghastly man and his cronies.