Saturday
I have no idea why there is nobody else on the allotments on a Saturday. Certainly, today, I might have understood it, for today is FA cup final day, and I drove past the Academy and noted that not only had they got blue and white balloons and bunting outside, but Chelsea flags too. Surely, like some sort of carnivorous plant, they should have displayed the ManU colours, so that they could have killed any fans who actually turned up?
Spent the day weeding on the allotment, listening to podcasts of readings of Sherlock Holmes stories. Am now watching the setting sun strike the spire of the church, towering above the bright, bright greens of the trees in the neighbourhood. I strongly suspect that there is no greater place than Great Britain, and there is no greater moment to live in it but now.
The sun colours the stone that particular shade of pink that lets you know that if you put ypur hand to what would normally be cold, grey, granit, it would be warm under your palm.
Spent the day weeding on the allotment, listening to podcasts of readings of Sherlock Holmes stories. Am now watching the setting sun strike the spire of the church, towering above the bright, bright greens of the trees in the neighbourhood. I strongly suspect that there is no greater place than Great Britain, and there is no greater moment to live in it but now.
The sun colours the stone that particular shade of pink that lets you know that if you put ypur hand to what would normally be cold, grey, granit, it would be warm under your palm.
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