I have about five long and, I think, interesting blog-chats recorded and no time to transcribe them today.
You can normally tell when I do not have time to write a blog because I revert to some tale from a past electronic diary.
Last night, suffering from a small part of my eternally-un-named friend’s cold or mini-flu or whatever she has, I had trouble sleeping horizontally – the inside of my throat burned. So I had to try to sleep sitting up, propped amid four pillows. It was a fitful night. Little sleep. But at least my throat did not burn.
I woke late and have to leave early.
Wassail toast hangs from trees while cider is poured on roots
I think I vaguely remember some dream about people hanging pieces of toast from the branches of trees at night: some flashback to a wassailing night in nearby Shenley a couple of years ago. They poured cider at the bottom of trees to encourage them to grow.
When I woke up, I looked at my diaries. Nothing happened on this day in years past. Except that, in 2001, a friend of mine told me she was thinking of moving to Australia because she liked the Australian character which, she felt, was less cynical than the British “because the country isn’t so old and they haven’t learned it yet”.
She has not moved to Australia.
And, in 2003, I heard that someone I had worked with at Granada TV in Manchester was now living in Bath. He had gone to Yorkshire to stay with a friend for a week but had been asked to leave after two days because he was scaring the kids. Whereas others might take a few cups of tea during the course of a day, for him a bottle of wine stood in for each cup of tea. The children found it unsettling that he had a tendency to get up without warning and start talking to the wall.
He is dead now.
So it goes.
