Am gradually getting to feel a bit better, hurrah, though I’m still dosing up on catarrh remedies and blowing my nose for Britain. How delightful. I’ve taken to carrying wads of tissues and 2 handkerchiefs everywhere with me, just in case. A girl in her prime can enjoy several.
Still, I did manage to get round the golf course fairly unscathed with Marian on Friday – we haven’t played for ages, what with Easter and conferences and holidays and such like, so it was nice to get back on the course. Neither were we as bad as we’d feared we might be. Also lovely to see two beautiful song thrushes on the course. Talking of which, Lord H and I enjoyed seeing a deer in the garden yesterday evening, and we also spotted a garden warbler (a lifetime first!) at Pulborough Brooks on Saturday. Huge excitement but really what a dull bird. It has absolutely no distinguishing features except a very lovely voice. Almost like a template for all other warblers, which at least have more interesting markings, poor thing.
Meanwhile, the election excitements continue. Lord H and I were rather bemused when watching the film of David Cameron going home after election night to see that he had to ring the doorbell of his own house in order to get in. What???!? Is he just too posh to carry his own key? Or does he expect the butler to open for him? Or perhaps the lovely Samantha doesn’t allow him to carry housekeys? The plot thickens indeed … Perhaps, Lord H says, it’s because he and Nick Clegg got on so well during their first date that Dave gave his keys to Nick so he could call round “for a quick chat” later? Lordy, but then people wonder where I get my book ideas from?? I fear Lord H is not as innocent as he seems … Best to keep a close eye on the “Dave & Nick talks” and see if they exit their meetings with their hair messed up and wearing each other’s ties. You heard it here first.
Anyway, this weekend’s favourite headline comes from The Sun: Squatter Holed Up in Number 10. Yes indeedy. Say no more.
Today, we’ve helped our friend Liz celebrate her 60th birthday party with a buffet lunch and flowing champagne. Though I did think it was probably best not to let the champers flow my way, what with the drugs. As it were. We didn’t stay too long due to (a) illness, and (b) a deep-seated terror of parties. But happy birthday, Liz, and here’s to 60 more of the same!
Not much to report this weekend. I’m carrying on writing more to The Executioner’s Cane, and I’m also continuing with my erotic straight short story, The Boilerman and The Bride. 3000 words and rising. Ho ho. I’ve also sent out a couple of submissions, one of which is the possibility of a haiku chapbook. We’ll see how that goes, but it would be nice to have a poetry collection out somewhere, however small, that I haven’t had to produce myself. I don’t think I’m as bad a poet as my poetry sales actually indicate, hey ho.
Talking of which, I’ve written two haikus this week and here they are:
All that voting angst,
tremors of expectation –
and no-one in charge.
Suddenly the sky
is filled with swifts: boomerangs
piercing silent clouds.