Goodnight November

Earlier in the year, when the spring winds were frisky and the temperatures were rising, I published this picture:

Washing

November’s winds are not so frisky, but the temperatures today were kind enough for line dried washing.

November Washing

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Autumn in St James’ Park

Tonight I am keen to achieve my objective of sleep before midnight, so this is a necessarily short post, but with pictures.

An autumnal St James’ Park,  in Central London, by Buckingham Palace. 

Poppy Dismantling

Pix at her Tiny Ten wrote yesterday of snow. In Lndon, I haven’t got the heating on yet, apart from the heated towel rail in the bathroom that is. It has been unseasonably mild. I went to dinner tonight at Octavia’s. Her mother, Rae (query spelling), is with her, a hale nonagenarian. While Octavia made a ‘phone call, Rae and I guzzled the good red wine. On the way home a short time ago, I actually felt very warm. I don’t think that was entirely due to the wine. Although this mildness, and the floods elsewhere in Europe, are worrying indications of climate crisis – and if I lived in one of those parts of Britain where floods have become the norm over the last few years, I imagine I would now be on Prozac – I admit I was grateful for the unseasonal warmth today. I spent the afternoon in the moat at the Tower of London as part of the disassembly team of volunteers taking the poppy display apart. An email yesterday warned us to expect Glastonbury conditions. The shift before us gleefully warned us of a mud bath. I can only think they don’t walk on unpaved paths very often.

Better Late Than Never

I know I am late. Technically this post is Friday, but I am still at Thursday.

There is a good reason for my lateness. We have been reading poetry down the road in a wonderful house that is the TRA building for the local community.

I want to move there. Anywhere that has such a civilised set up is a good place to live. We drank wine, ate cashew nuts, cake and crisps, read poetry, told stories.

My favourite story concerned a Round Robin. One of those Round Robins you sometimes receive at Christmas that recount the family’s achievements in the third person.

Reflections

They say a week is a long time in politics. I say a week can be a long time in anything. This time last week I was enjoying being warm and dry after a walk in heavy rain; my Aunt Nessa was still alive; I was scraping up some work and had tickets to the theatre on Thursday and to a literary event on Friday.

Obviously I should not have chosen for my aunt to die, and I should have liked to go to both the theatre and the literary event, but it was nice to be in the bosom of my family for twenty-four hours; to lean against the work surface in the kitchen at Cousin’s and chew the fat; tell stories; marvel at Fido’s successful campaign to make himself persona grata in the kitchen and small sitting room; cuddle Westie Boy; and hear Mother’s voice in the local accents.

After the funeral we adjourned to the adjoining café. It is called Reflections. It is the first time I have been to a crematorium with a café on site. What a good idea. No hiatus between service and story swapping; no getting lost trying to follow directions in unfamiliar territory; and surprisingly good coffee. Knowing I should not be home until late, I broke my no coffee after midday rule, and I am glad that I did.

I think I may have said before that talking in my family is a competitive sport. Aunt Nessa’s wasn’t the last funeral of the day, but we were the last out of the café. It had to be. At least ten of us present were blood relatives. There were six first cousins for starters. Or rather nine. But six of us are first cousins with each other, then the other three with each other as well as being first cousins once removed with uncle Bill, and second cousins with the six first cousins, if you follow, and I shall quite understand if you don’t.