Vicarious exercise

It's been a foul day, growing more foul with every hour - and the commentator for BBC TV has just echoed that very word in the first half of the Calcutta Cup match, which I'm watching on half of the computer screen while writing this on the other. (If you recall, I was driving home in similar weather when the match was played). I don't usually go for watching sport on the telly, especially during the day - it makes me feel even worse to be spending the whole day indoors, as I have today. But I think I overdid things last week, and felt distinctly below par this morning, so I think I've probably been what my mother would have called "sensible". Not like a man at Murrayfield who might well be described as "elderly" whom I've just seen on screen vainly trying to hap his scarf even closer around his neck - he doesn't have a hat on ...

I've done a little work too - several Italian lessons on Duolingo (can't remember these prepositions!) and some prep for a PreachMeet on Tuesday (when I and the other lay preachers chew over upcoming lectionary readings and plot angles). But now I've had enough of today; Himself has just brought back the travel insurance documents he's been poring over and I think it's time to have dinner and shut out the night.

I'm blipping my study desk, a shot taken during the singing of "Flower of Scotland" at Murrayfield because I love the delight on that unknown boy's face as he sings along with the pipes. It never fails to stir, whatever the result.