I wasn’t feeling on top form yesterday. I slept like a log last night and felt better this morning; if not actually one hundred per cent. I was woken shortly after seven o’clock by the sound of Sid barking so I was up like a shot to see if I could beat the turd. I did, which was no small victory.
Over some toast I peered into the Internet to see what I’d missed overnight. There was talk on the Facebook “Upstairs Downstairs” page about the episode in which Mr Hudson porked Lily (the beast). Half way into a rather harmless thread of speculation, some woman made a point of reminding everyone that it was just a TV show. I’ve often said that some people will argue over anything, but it never fails to amaze me when I see it happening.
There was also talk on my old school’s Facebook page about my old maths teacher “Fred Bread”. It turns out that the chap was only about ten years older than me. He would have taught me when he was in his late twenties – looking back he looked as though he was in his forties then. The job must have aged him. Someone had met him shortly before he died. Having taken early retirement he was quoted as having said he "wanted to teach maths, not tell fourteen-year-olds how to add up" which certainly speaks volumes about the decline of our country’s education system.
And I had a friend request on Facebook from Jacqueline Diaz who wondered if I wanted to join her Whatsapp group which apparently features many beautiful women who need warm love (!) I’ve squealed her up to the Facebook Feds, but I doubt they will do anything. The pornmongers who sent me Facebook friend requests last month are still in business despite my squealing on them too.
I took the dogs out. With the snow and ice and sub-zero temperatures finally having gone (for now) we drove out to Great Chart. The drive along Brookfield Road was easier than it had been yesterday since the traffic lights were working today. We got to our usual parking place, I put on my wellies, and we walked up to the flood and back. The flood at Godinton has subsided an awful lot, but still remains impassable if you haven’t got wellies on. Mind you I say “still remains impassable if you haven’t got wellies on” but several people came down the path toward us having walked though it in trainers.
Fudge did his usual trick of going in the same direction as us at a snail’s pace and running back the wrong way at breakneck speed.
We came home, had a cuppa, and I left the dogs in the charge of “er indoors TM” nd drove down to Hastings and the hospice. My sixth visit in sixteen days, and again there was a slightly different process. After I was COVID-tested I went in to see mum. The nurses said they’d topped up her medication, and (quite frankly) I might as well not have gone along today. Mum was completely oblivious to everything around her. I sat with her and held her hand for half an hour before going out and sitting with dad whilst his COVID test incubated.
Dad went in to see mum, and I came home. I spent the afternoon ironing whilst watching some episodes of “Four in a Bed”. Today’s contestants were a half-way decent bed and breakfast from Anglesey, somewhere in Norfolk catering for travelling businessmen, a rather grim Blackpool guest house and a place (not an hour’s drive from home) with the lame-to-fame that it was once the home of Charles Dickens. Apart from the proprietor of the place in Blackpool wanting to pork the two who ran Charles Dickens’ house, every contestant clearly hated every other contestant. Everyone was criticising everyone else for that which they were doing themselves. The show was a perfect example of the pot calling the kettle black.
“er indoors TM” sorted out a rather good plate of curry each which we washed down with a bottle of malbec whilst watching Monty Python’s “Life of Brian”. I’d forgotten just how good a film that was.
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