Mr Life has nobly taken my mother through to Glasgow to see friends and I've had a domestic day, cleaning and potting up cuttings. I went for a walk and took some books back to the library and it was COLD - biting wind and grey light. I took my camera to look for signs of spring but there weren't many. These little daffodils on my doorstep are a cheat: I bought them at the supermarket yesterday. Still, they do bring a bit of cheer.
The pansies by the door are blooming,
but these potted crocuses are not hurrying to flower.
A few straggly snowdrops in the garden
and some equally unenthusiastic crocuses. I know how they feel.
Can you see the snow-covered Pentland Hills in the middle of this picture? They're almost invisible against the grey-white sky.
I was just thinking rather pathetically: what's wrong with life now that the offspring have sprung off is that it's rather dull. It's all right. We can cope. But the children were such fun. Among other benefits, Daughter 1 is always interesting - she's got such a wide set of skills and knowledge different from ours; Daughter 2 is very empathetic and knows how to cheer us up; and Son is very funny and always made us laugh when he lived at home.
Now we just have cats; and all the time I've been trying to write this post, Cassie has been walking to and fro over the keyboard typing little messages to you such as qqqggg/////, rubbing her fluffy side against my face and sticking her tail up my nose. Composition under difficulties!
I think I shall be very decadent: put the heating on, make a cup of tea and read my book. Mind you, it's Jodie Picoult's My Sister's Keeper, which I bought only to make up a 3 for 2 offer and took a while to get round to because I realised it wouldn't exactly be a giggle. Which it's not. I've not got very far but (as I always do) I had a look at the last chapter and - goodness me, she piles on the misery at the end.
(As I was potting the cuttings, I was listening to Othello on the radio and having much the same "For goodness sake! Do you have to write about this?" thoughts about Shakespeare. Could you have made this a gloomier play, do you think, Will?)
Mutter, mutter, mutter...