The last rose ...

Here we are, waiting for another storm - having learned that in Scotland the last poor souls who've been without power since the last one have just been reconnected. It's a strange feeling - is the front of our house going to be battered tomorrow, or - as the graphics on the BBC weather forecast suggested - are we somehow going to be in a tiny enclave between snow and wind warnings and have merely miserable weather? Who knows. It's deathly quiet and chilly this evening, and the idiot lights across the road have just stopped flashing for the night.

The Pilates class had a full turnout this morning - a last drive to be fit for Christmas? Our remarkable teacher worked us hard, so that there were grunts all round above the sound of the soothing music. I think I shall suffer tomorrow - I must have the tightest hamstrings in Christendom. Other than that, my only outing was to the Post Office to post the cards that have been sitting written for days now, and to buy stamps for the overseas ones. I had to apologise profusely to the woman serving me when I found that we'd somehow not stuck down the foreign cards, so that she ended up having to do them for me with her little damp sponge. Nae spit allowed these days! We walked the longer way home, along the chilly shore road, just because it was there, but it was a soul-destroying experience, really. I was glad to get in and wrestle with my Italian - the Subjunctive Imperfect tonight. I've lost my memory for endings, that's the trouble.

My #2 son is travelling abroad on a business trip right now - the changing rules round PCR tests and the time between test and flying is causing him - and others - all kind of complications. And because we're in a chat group we know all about it, instead of going to bed content in the knowledge that his flight landed safely. See communication?

The rose in the blip is the very last in my garden, hanging precariously on the almost-bare branches of the old climbing rose that always gets in our way into the back garden in the summer. I celebrate its delicate defiance, but I fear it will not survive tomorrow. 

To my Blip friends in the east - hold onto your hats, and good luck!