Many years ago a friend lent us a small cabin cruiser and we spent a few days cruising on the Thames. This was not a holiday of rushing about and seeking adventure. Every bush or burrow in the bank became a feature to be anticipated, examined and contemplated as we drifted slowly past. (Unfortunately the whole holiday was not so serene - I holed the vessel when I got the throttle jammed in fast forward and went roaring into a lock ricocheting off some very expensive looking craft). So with this gently flowing stream of time we have now at our disposal every feature in the routine becomes a source of fascination. Thursdays is the day we weigh ourselves. This regular commitment began when my osteopath (By Appointment) with courageous honesty, told me I was fat. Actually Rachel (we'll call her that to protect her identity) was a little more temperate in the expression she used, but the message was the same. It was echoed by my GP later. Dieting, abstaining from alcohol and exercise were anathema at the time, but now I have the leisure to experiment with ways of jettisoning weight just before confronting the scales. Ensure bladder and bowels empty, shave, trim hair, brush off dandruff, clip nails, remove ear wax and navel fluff and take off glasses so you can't read the scales anyway. Would that make a difference? A before and after experiment I suspect would be disappointing. An alternative is to wear lots of clothes and then subtract a grossly inflated amount from the total to compensate. Speculating about this conundrum has successfully passed another five minutes.
Everywhere you go now, with so many people off work, is the sound of DIY. The air is filled with buzzing, sawing, hammering, crunching, scraping and when I join in, cursing. The architectural landcape of Crich is being transformed with extensions, new sheds, walls, landscaped gardens, rockeries, block paving, patios, garden ponds, water features, air-raid shelters, watch towers and helipads. My daughters fondly recall the bird table I built, which tipped over when a sparrow landed on it. It was even mentioned in a Rob Stamper poem at my 70th birthday party. Even small girls have the power to undermine one's confidence for ever. So after forty years nursing my bruised self-esteem I decided to re-lay some wobbly slabs and repoint the patio. This meant mixing concrete. I didn't have the right sand so Google informed me I actually mixed cement. But I lifted the very weighty slabs without accident and did the job. It made me feel really manly, because as you know, only real men lift heavy patio slabs and mix cement. It will do fine as long as a sparrow doesn't land on the patio.
With the help of our splendid volunteers we're alright now for shopping. But then of course there are the really trivial things we run out of which are too embarrassing or even gratuitous to mention. We ran out of Nyjer seed. Obviously the goldfinches were concerned and as they have been entertaining us so faithfully we Whatsapped our dilemma. Enter Corinne with blue light flashing off to Taylors - a necessary journey the goldfinches agreed. Then we shyly made the world aware we had run out of newspaper to light the stove. A pile of newspapers appears at the door. Remarkable! - I will need three months to bestow the blessings our neighbours deserve.