Just another Saturday ...

I've taken precisely one photo today, and now it's almost time to think about making dinner (from scratch - no more delicious left-overs or food-parcel delights to fall back on tonight). I might do some more Italian first - Duolingo's such a nag! - or I might march up and down the stairs a few times to make up for the amount of time I've been at the computer this afternoon. But first - my blip.

The photo was taken at 08.18 today, my computer tells me, and is the familiar view from my bedroom (not actually my bed this time!) of the pre-sunrise sky. There are actually some lovely things in it, if the resolution on the screen is sufficiently high (Blip removes some sharpness, I've found) - the cumulus heaped over the entrance to the river as distinct from the Firth of Clyde, the warmer light from where the sun may be trying to rise in the east, the reflective calm of the sea. The lights of the ferries on the water. And then the darkness of the houses in the foreground, because most people begin the day in the back rooms of their houses, in kitchens and snug little corners, before facing the day. And the roads are silent, because it's Saturday and it's the end of the holiday.

I went out after coffee this morning. My bird feeders were too disgusting to clean (I've been putting it off) and I was out of bird food. And Himself wanted the good chickpeas from the Health Store, for his dahl. I set off blithely down our still-pretty-new-looking path, the slabs smooth and creamy against the surrounding red chips ... and stopped to watch the postman, who'd just arrived. He came up the first steps - stopped - and then stepped sideways onto the loose stones. And I realised he'd just saved me from a horrid, full-blown fall, probably onto the back of my head, on the sloping path. Because the lowest two slabs still had a slick of invisible ice on them, and were lethal. 

I went back in for some salt, and thanked him profusely.

Out again, this time cautiously. Argyll Street was almost empty. One group of five, looking like visitors. And me. Into the hardware shop - the only customer. Out again five minutes later, carrying two different types of feeder and a hefty bag of wild bird food and a suet cake. Slower, along the road, seeing one or two people and bored shop keepers. Still slower up Ferry Brae (it's steep, and the bags were heavy). As I've noted before, the only establishment showing life and light and jollity was the wine bar. Home, bags even heavier, feeling ... bleak.

We had new-made bread and Christmas marmalade for lunch. A gesture of cheer, and utterly delicious. An apple was a nod to the health department.

Since then, Himself has been slaving in the kitchen to clean the oven and replace the cooker hood filters. And I? I have written a sermon - not for tomorrow, but for a week hence. Time for it to cook. And I'm indebted to a theologian friend, first met online and then, twice, in RL, whose help meant I feel excited by what I've discovered and what I've written. It could so easily have gone otherwise. 

And now I've written this, which may mean I get to bed at a marginally more sensible hour. And I have to get out by 10am tomorrow - which I've not done since Christmas Day.