Blimey, not much blogging of late, there’re good reasons though.
Aged mum still in hospital, been there since November 29th, requiring much support in many ways. This has been a large absorber of what would otherwise have been free/blogging time. Aged Uncle also needing much support, admittedly mainly from memsahib allatsea and he too is now in hospital, the same one (so far) as mummy allatsea. His faithful moggy ‘Spot’ needs feeding twice a day so he’s being incorporated into the daily ‘to do’ list.
A certain ‘Care’ home in Deal doesn’t quite grasp the concept of care. Mummy allatsea lasted 48 hours there before falling (when unattended) and smashed her already smashed hip …again. Back to QEQM she went. No wonder the NHS is struggling, she’s in a ward crammed with similar cases.
Q: How long would you expect a HP Pavillion desktop PC to last?
A: In our case, 93 minutes, as experienced yesterday! From delivery to being taken back to PC World. The replacement too is struggling with a 4GB Windows 10 update. Deep effing joy. The whole malarkey triggered by our faithful Acer Aspire starting to go a tadge awry (it’s 5 years old) but ironically behaving impeccably since forking out £500 for the new HP. Grrrrrrr!
Finny ‘Bigmog’ is diabetic. Not faggy easy to control Type 2 either. Full blown needing injections twice a day (cue memsahib allatsea as a certain coward runs for the hills) and careful diet regulation …….. oooh yes and great wodges of cash to the vets too.
A poem by James Farrar
Brave roadside ragwort scurried under wind.
The mad meadow grass where mildewed agony
Spews forth crows like ghouls
Clanking the hedge-eddies with fingered spread.
The hedge-dank leaf-fouled lane before me falls
To a dead distance of hills and sky.
Struggle under the writhing wood which a mile back
Roared like a sea. The lustful air,
Harvesting shoals of jaundice from frenzied oak,
Plucks vainly at the slow arc-tracing pines.
Stand in a devil-darkness of leaves and smoke,
Shin-deep. Wild branches scream despair
At the full thunder of the drowning year.
A caravan comes up the lane: old horse cringing
Like a tired insect in its slow grief.
Bleached painted sides, lean leathern gypsy driving:
Old woman and blind son with bitter mouths curled.
Yet the lean one turns with lit face; his voice peal
‘Bound away north. Back in spring, in spring!’
Thralled I watch them away under the hills
In the tunnel of darkness, the dying world.
Break fibre, raise and fly leaf!
Rise, in the wind’s lusting mouth sing –
Soar and shout, to the faint stars away!
I care not that night comes cold or the dead sun
Droops on the earth in the short weak day –
Back in Spring, in Spring!