Storm Alex

As dawn broke like a drunkard’s bruise the rain started. Blankets of the stuff. Thick and impenetrable. Drops like dinner plates. It’d stop mysteriously as if someone had said, ‘Let’s take it from the top.’ And then start again like an escalator in an early hours underground car park ( or carp ark). Threatening to bash in the skylights. I thought to get up but the bedroom air had a chill to it and the window view was just fog and rain and fog. By 10.30 things had calmed down somewhat. There were 32mm in the gauge.

Further north in Liguria and Piemonte and the Val D’Aosta things were much worse and in the French Alpes-Maritimes worse still.

We picked the last tomatoes and another big bucket of bloody walnuts. Gulliver was in action. More preserving jars were bought.

A grim day. Covid numbers rising in Italy. Campania, Lazio and Basilicata all now have decrees enforcing mask wearing whenever outside. It could be a national decree on Wednesday. It is worrying the virus seems strong in Rome, Naples and some of the south, areas spared the worst of the tragedy of the first Italian wave.

An article in the FT highlights the issues facing economic migrants abroad. The desire to return home, to be near parents, to be on familiar ground, to be free of the anxiety of should-I-shouldn’t-I flights and routes home.

We made a chicken and passata dish with roast Desiree potatoes from the garden. The night closed in wet and foggy. I’ll be listening for the hobbies tomorrow. And Trump news, obviously.