Postscripts

Not much I can usefully add this Hogmanay: domestic politics have followed the chaotic course that inevitably and predictably began in 2016, and Russian foreign policy has gone back centuries.  

But I must post a postscript about the Post.  Our lovely postie Marcin knocked on the door yesterday to say that he’d brought our mail to us after work the day before it was due, so as to get our mail to us before Christmas and get in before the strikes.  He’s such a nice fellow, and politely tolerates my three or four mangled words of Polish.  So I called the Royal Mail yesterday and told them to discontinue the complaint I’d put in, apologising and explaining that we had in fact had exceptional service in the circumstances.

It has been very wet this week, yet one day was fine enough to get laundry dry outside on the line, and as I mentioned, the garden bin is getting rather full.  The severe frosts earlier in the month have really hammered the penstemons - the drought followed by rain led to a late burgeoning of tender foliage - so I’ll need to get them chopped down next time we have a good day.  The apple tree needs pruning too, so maybe I’ll get a bit of fresh air and exercise if we get a decent day or two.  The bin will be full and supplemented by black bags when the toon cooncil finally resumes collections.

Talking of bins, the local fauna are taking an interest in the food waste bin.  Before we went away, I’d had to throw out some rotting apples, and a couple of mornings came down to find them scattered across the paving at the back door.  The other day in the small hours I heard sounds of plastic boxes on the move.  This is not unusual when it’s windy, but as it was pretty still, I took a look out.  When the security light came on, I saw a huge badger having a stroll round the garden, then crawling through the fence to Annie’s next door.  It hadn’t managed to get the food bin open, so I didn’t have to sweep up this time.

We’ve been well entertained this week: lunch with Claire and Richard and their son David, and supper yesterday with Martyn’s niece Fiona and her partner and son: both Alexanders.  A brief visit to the scales last night confirmed the worst: twelve days of Cunardry followed by festive meals at home and away have taken their toll.  I had to lean forward to see the readout.