A misty morning. Only the roofs of houses one row behind us visible, with the rest of the valley below in mist. Lorraine had a day off today, to regroup from having worked through the last few weekends. She is a bit shattered, but enjoyed catching up on some phone calls and relaxing and according to her fit bit, her body battery was in at 70% mid afternoon. This must be good, and better than normal, although I am not sure what it means.
An article in the Guardian about Death In Paradise. It seems that Lorraine and I are not the only ones to be liking its undemanding fluff last year.
Really good to see Charlotte on my screen, and record an interview about her poetry this morning. She writes so honestly and illuminatingly about anxiety. Because she is a mate, we both wanted to avoid cliquey backslapping stuff, so I think we did a good job.
Later Lorraine and had a plague-dodging walk around Blaker's Park and through local streets. A grey old day. In the US efforts afoot to impeach Trump again. In the UK people dying in their thousands from Covid. Made the mistake of watching the ten o'clock news featuring a report from inside hospital. One poor old geezer sitting up in bed, having been brought back from the brink, reciting the Lord's Prayer. What a terrible business.
She sent me this photo that her son took. Lovely light on it.