Seasonal

I've lived in this house for the past 45 years. 45 years of Spring suddenly arriving and dragging me out to the garden, of compelling me to take action instead of looking passively at the winter deadness. 45 years ago I could happily work in said garden for a whole morning - unless, of course, a toddler thought otherwise - and still function normally at the end of it.

Not now. 

Of course the sudden appearance of green sprouts on every shrub in sight has the same power to taunt, and of course I'm still susceptible - but lord, does it half kill me! Why should an hour of pruning one rosa rugosa leave my back aching? It reminded me of the same sensation when you've been laying out clothes on the bed prior to packing a suitcase - remember when we used to do things like that? And then I had to pick it all up ...

I had other things to do as well, including two visits to the optician's where the owner managed to solder my broken-framed computer specs - I could have hugged him. I also picked up some prescriptions - up and down that hill twice. And later, the sun was still there and despite its being later than I would have liked, we simply had to get out for a walk and headed down to Loch Striven, where I took these three photos of the ubiquitous catkins, the fabulous gorse, and the daffodils in the garden of the Old Schoolhouse at Inverchaolain. 

I also made an encouraging discovery: the aching lower back that has plagued so many of my walks recently is rather obviously related to posture. I tried walking with my hands behind my back, as previously discussed, while holding my core muscles firm and standing tall as I walked. Everything felt a bit tired by the time I got back to the car, but not sore. Result!

The news was intermittently encouraging and infuriating. Lockdown easing - yay. Stockpiling more nuclear weapons? That'll be in our loch, yes? No! And as for David Davis discussing speculative information about the Scottish Parliament enquiry before the results have been made public? Ah, that's where the fury comes in.

And to cap it all, my hairdresser is in a different council area. Not yet, Michael, not yet ...