Time, like an ever-rolling stream...

Life is slightly boring at the moment, though not unpleasant in any way. I do like to see people and go places from time to time, and that's severely restricted (and likely to get worse, if our virus figures don't improve soon). I find it slightly trying that people like us, who wear masks when we go into shops and buses - but frankly hardly ever do go into shops and buses - and who would visit friends and family carefully, with the windows open and sitting on opposite sides of the room, are having our lives curtailed just so that silly people should be discouraged from going in large groups to pubs and having big house parties. However... there we are. It could be worse. It may well become worse.

A little excitement is being provided in our tiny street by the chap who's bought the house opposite. The old lady who lived in it died about fifteen years ago, and her son, who lived in Glasgow, used to visit for the occasional weekend. But in recent years he didn't even do that, though did occasionally instruct roofers to patch the roof or whatever. So it was in a fairly bad state. Anyway, the son has now died and it's been sold to a family who are, reasonably enough, having major works done to it. Unfortunately this means that our tiny street is cluttered up with vans, which our next-door neighbour does not like. And then yesterday, gas vans arrived to dig up the road for the installation of gas pipes. Yesterday was also the first day that our landscapers were going to come to fix the ex-hedge area, using a digger. However, they'd have had difficulty accessing our house, so I put them off and they're now coming on Monday - I hope. 

The new owner seems affable enough but I'd have liked him to be at least a bit apologetic about our having to postpone our landscapers, for whom we've been waiting for some time; but he wasn't. More seriously though, our next-door neighbour is very miffed that the new chap didn't inform all the neighbours that the digging-up was about to happen. Our street is a dead-end, with only five houses and a total of seven occupants, so it wouldn't have been a major task to ring people's bells, and for those of us who normally back out of our driveways into what we regard as the turning circle (now a big, fenced-off hole) it's a bit tricky. Ah well. I wonder whether I should gently mention to the new neighbour that it would be better to communicate more with the rest of us ... or will I just keep out of it? 

I'm spending/wasting far too much time quilting my African fabrics quilt, but have also been doing a bit of sorting of the archives. It's so hard to throw things out - letters from dead friends and relatives (actually, I'm going to stop kidding myself that I might do that) and photos of the family (but we have literally thousands of those). 

There are minor triumphs. Here are some postcards written by their neighbours to my grandparents in the early 1970s. I found these in my mum's stuff and it wasn't too difficult to decide that they weren't examples of deathless prose or wit. 

I know who these people were - the Browns lived up the road and were friends of my grandparents, and the Hoggs lived next door and weren't particular friends, though pleasant neighbours. But it's interesting that Mrs Brown signed herself as C Brown - such formality. They were more than passing  acquaintances (Netta was her daughter and slightly younger than my mother). And Violet Hogg signs her husband and herself as V and J[ohn] Hogg on the postcards. Such different days and such boring messages! Though actually the Hoggs' postcard was from what was then Rhodesia, which explains why it was "really" hot. I wonder why they went there? I have a vague idea that they had family there. 

No such exciting trips for us, but we still go for regular walks along the same old roads. All these leaves will fall off these trees in the next few months, and someone will have to sweep them up, fortunately not us.

Meanwhile the river flows steadily down to the sea, uncaring that our lives are slipping away, as have the lives of my grandparents, my parents, the Browns, the Hoggs... 

I'd probably be a bit more cheerful (though I'm not really uncheerful) if someone would come and buy Daughter 2's flat. But since it went on the market on July 31, there have been only three viewers. Such bad timing, as it turns out. 

And yes, Margaret, Mr L has regrown his beard. He shaved it off but then decided that - I don't really know - he no longer liked his face or something? I myself think it's a very fine face, and it's far less wrinkly than mine (could I grow a beard to hide the wrinkles, I wonder?) but anyway, it's back for the moment. 

So yes. Nothing's happening. But this is better than something terrible happening, and we'll see the Edinburgh grandchildren tomorrow so that's good.