Avoiding the cup final

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. Continue reading

Sunday Evening, London

After a hot journey Cat and I made it back to a quiet capital. Never a good sign when England is playing. I don’t have to watch a match to know if the side scores; the locals roar their appreciation. So the World Cup has been a pretty quiet affair all round.

I have mixed feelings about England’s exit from the tournament. Surprising really. I mean surprising I have any feelings about it as I am not a football follower. Obviously it would be nice if for once the national team won something, but having witnessed two sets of fans bowling along leafy stretches of the country, the bits that have Desirable Area written, discreetly of course, all over them, singing songs about German bombers that I imagine must have been current in about 1940, I’m rather glad this element can now crawl back into its timewarp bunker.

There are many reasons why history should be remembered. Waving selected and distorted bits of it in the faces of descendants of historical antagonists, whether  at a sporting event or elsewhere, with some bizarre idea of demonstrating a superiority, moral or military, is not one of them.

Of course it’s not just the English who do this. Some Scots people once left me at a loss for words – a rare thing; as one my cousins says, there’s no need for any of us to kiss the Blarney Stone, rather the reverse – by telling me that although I was English and therefore guilty by association with Culloden, Edward l and goodness knows what else, they liked me and that it must be because I have an Irish mother.

God help us.