I think it's Thursday ...

It's accelerating, this life caper - the days, the weeks, the months, zipping by ever faster like H. G. Wells' description of using the Time Machine* - and so I find another Thursday has come and gone and tomorrow I'll have to go and Collect that for which I have Clicked (ie go and get the shopping from Morrison's). There's even less to mark the different days when you don't get out, I think, or when the weather is unremarkable...

Actually today began with something a little different: snow had fallen all the way down to sea level, so that even our garden was white. The sea view from my front window was grey, misty and unremarkable, so I thought I'd blip the view to the rear of the house. It looks strangely cluttered, probably because I used a bit of zoom to show the snowy hills with their white forestry and the comb-like marks of the harvesting that's been going on for a while. On the left of the telegraph pole you can see one of the many magpies that haunt the area - he's making his way to the top of the pole.

The morning was taken up in online orders and fighting technology (I lost - mainly because my iPad is too old to be useful. I think.) I put some rice noodles into the chicken soup I made yesterday and we had this for lunch with newly-made brown bread; it was extremely delicious, for which I think I have to credit the sesame oil and the splash of fish sauce, a new idea for me,  found online when I was looking for inspiration. 

In the late afternoon I decided that the sore throat had subsided for now and we'd better record hymns before it resurfaced in a more restricting fashion, so we took ourselves to the freezing church and did a fairly expeditious job on three pieces. The temperature inside the church was 3.20c - there's a wee thermometer on the organ pipes; I marched up and down the aisle while Himself was setting up the equipment. It's the constant chilly hand-sanitising that really gets me ...

Today's political horrors include the absurd evasions of Priti Patel when questioned about Johnson's bike ride (how long do we have to put up with these incompetents?) and the disaster for the shellfish producers around here, who can't export to the continent now with sufficient speed to make it work. I can no longer be bothered excusing people who voted for Brexit, whether or not they were duped by the lies of the people who now lead the country. We weren't duped. 

*There is a feeling exactly like that one has upon a switchback—of a helpless headlong motion! I felt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent smash. As I put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing. The dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me, and I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every minute, and every minute marking a day.