A Rush of Blood to the Head

It’s turned out nice, as they say. The pesky east wind of last week with its inbuilt haars has been usurped by a west wind bringing sunshine and warmth to this part of the world. It has also brought out the young to fill the Meadows with a seething mass of humanity as far as they eyes can see, and not one of them over the age of 25 I would guess.

The young are partying while the elderly are still sticking to the lockdown instructions frightened that they might catch the virus. ‘The young shall inherit the earth’ seems all to real.
We the left behind one’s, (at least some of us) scuttle out at sunrise when the ‘yoof ’ are still abed and engage in exercise when the world is tranquil and filled more with bird song than youthful chatter.

Despite finding it harder and harder to get out of bed at the crack of dawn these doldrums days, my feet found the floor early this morning and I managed to do a 13 mile bike run, make a week’s supply of vegetable stew and bake some reasonable scones before 10am.
Then I had to sit with a cold compress on my forehead to recover.
Two phone calls and a short walk later and I have been planted on the patio ever since with a book and a mini Magnum ice cream. Best not to overdo things at my age.