Fifteen happy years

We had lunch on Friday with Sandra and Michael, two of our four guests when we dun the legal stuff fifteen years ago, and at the same pub.  The current owners were very welcoming and friendly (if a bit loud), and the menu was wholesome enough, but not special.  The chairs were gravely uncomfortable, hence perhaps the backache.  Times change.

Today, the anniversary, we’ve had a quiet day at home.  With the surge in infections hereabouts, we are not too keen on rubbing shoulders with the locals, few of whom are wearing masks or otherwise behaving responsibly.  Good job we enjoy each other’s company.  And that we have a house and garden that we like.  

The grass is cut, though I doubt if it’s the last time this year.  We chatted on the phone with Annie at lunchtime, and she accepted an offer to send rudbeckia seed.  I went out and did some dead-heading, and have packed roughly enough seed to populate the East Riding - where we were so happy to see plants from last year’s seeds in the Hull University botanic gardens when we were up there last month.

The lasting reminder of our visit to said East Riding is of course the injured thumb.  Five weeks on, it still aches a bit, but appears to be healing well.  We are just so blessed that we have a National Health Service, though it’s alarming to see how many GP practices have been bought by American ‘health providers’.  HMG’s insulting suggestion that GPs should be putting in more hours just shows how little these privileged, public school twats know about or value the service.  True: my forthcoming hospital appointment is about six months overdue, but this is directly traceable back to HMG’s under-funding of a wonderful service, and to the ejection of so many EU-citizen clinical and care staff.  OK: dunrantin.  But as I find myself saying more and more often, I’m glad I’m old and childless.