Chose to stay in bed with Carol Klein (reruns of Life in a Cottage Garden) and her dulcet northern tones (her Lancashire making me miss my Yorkshire) followed by Boris Johnson’s not so favourably accented ‘let’s be absolutely clear’ as mud appearance on Andrew Marr over writing anything worthwhile today. The former had me dreaming of (scouring eBay for) greenhouses and plotting a semester of soil sampling, mulching, Hakonechloa trimming and seedling growing of the Rudbeckia, Aquilegia and Dahlia kind; the latter urged me to dive down deeper under the covers until it’s vaccine time.
The boys, sensing the imminent non-approach of school and thus even more time without seeing their friends had other ideas. What they wanted was a good old fashioned bunfight. At somewhere around 2pm, we duly found ourselves up at The Flats (Wanstead Flats) for an enforced let-off-steam kick-around, which quickly turned into an elemental soaking by hail.
Nothing like getting drenched in icy pellets of frozen rain to make you glad to be safe in the cabin-fevered clutches of home again . . . for around ten minutes at least. Having safely deposited the boys by the fire (supervised by dad) I was back out the door to meet one of my friends, the only feasible way to hang out with your nearest and dearest right now.
We walked. We talked. We meandered until the oak trees disappeared into the dark. I might have supped some Baileys from a hip flask on the way home. Tomorrow is a day for sowing seeds, I vow.