The temperature’s dropped. We’ve had some trifling, inconsequential rain – nothing that seems like it means business. The atmosphere’s still and heavy. Typically, for Saturday afternoon and evening, when my son-in-law will again be cooking wood-fired pizzas, more serious rain, and wind, is promised. The canopy will need to be repaired by then.
There’s been talk of how to set up the shearing tomorrow. What happens re social distancing? What if it rains?
The four fish have survived their house move, and, since nature abhors a vacuum, the kids have conjured up a toad. As a new resident for the former pond. I’m not yet sure if this is a real amphibian or a product of their imaginations.
I couldn’t sleep last night. My brain was racing. So many conflicting views of what’s actually the right way forward now; so much information but who to trust? So much feeling of impotence about the current US situation. And there, in the middle of the night, the quiet awareness that our spaniel is slowly fading. I drank a glass of water – (yes, it works!) – sat in the kitchen with the dog and let it all wash over me.
Earlier yesterday evening, after checking emails and posting my blog, I returned to the farmhouse kitchen. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re back. What sort of urinals should we get?’
This is not my area of expertise, so that line of conversation was not going anywhere. But I listened, and I did learn a little. He’s made his choice, but along the route to a decision, it struck me what a balancing act design and construction is, with different costs, financial and environmental, for each option. A minefield, or a reed bed, of possibilities.
And so the project moves on.