Friday night, around 11pm. All quiet. The lost package for the taxi driver has been found and handed over. The parcel from Norwich hasn’t arrived yet. It’s important and should have been here hours ago. Gnashing of teeth can be heard from over the horizon.
The East European crew of the good vessel Cranelifter (not her real name) have to be entered into the people tracking database. It’s mind crushingly tedious but as there’s nowt else to do it may as well be done with good grace….sadly :o) It’ll pass a few hours and no mistake, very long hours.
The weather’s not been good. Too much wind mainly. Here in the southeast we’ve had no rain of note for ages. Everything’s a dirty brarn colour. The North and the people’ republic of Scottyland have been drowned recently it seems but we’ve not seen a drop. Crikey, I really miss the rain. It’s only recently dawned as to just how invigorating and lovely it is. Water is security. They’re fighting wars over the stuff in some parts of the world and about to start fighting over it in a lot more places. As mummy England’s water, in general, is dependent on the Welsh and to a lesser degree, the Geordies and the Jocks there’s a jolly good chance we’ll start squabbling here. No doubt some folk in the larger cities, following this week’s events, may feel it’s already started.
The funeral is on the 18th. These are things that no one looks forward to. In this particular case there are those in the ranks that would possibly rather throw themselves into a vat of boiling tar whilst wearing only a pair of flipflops and a loosely fitting necktie than go to it but go they will. Goodness only knows how they’ll react when they get there. If I thought for a second that bro could deal with it without family support then likely I wouldn’t go either. Sadly and obviously (to all around him), he can’t, so we will.
To Hampshire then, to Hampshire.