under another sun

An alarming start: 6:45. I'd had a wretched night's sleep. Seems the that orange faced malignant narcissistic rapist racist criminal devil Trump has beaten Kamala Harris to the presidency. Shameful.  Lorraine and I up blearily, and after breakfast and faffing about, caught a train to Brighton, and arrived delayed at Gatwick. Realised at Seaford station I had left my phone at home. No trains via Lewes due to a points failure, so via Brighton to Gatwick. However planes delayed here due to fog, probably mixed up with yesterday's gunpowder. Astonishingly, however, our boarding was only delayed by half an hour of so.  The flight was fine. The small twin engined prop taking off like a flying coach all very smooth. Cramped inside however, but very happy to see Guernsey for the first time in two and a half years as we finally dropped below the low blanket of cloud.  A taxi from the airport. The most miserable taxi driver I've ever met, completely down on every aspect of Guernse

Uncle Steve again for breakfast. Lorraine microwaved some porridge for him, till it exploded. Then Lorraine off to Eastbourne with Maureen for occupational therapy discussions about showers. Steve hung out with Pat, then made his way home. I had enjoyed getting to know him better.  I spent the morning working on the Kenniad, also getting ready for tomorrow's journey. Also wasted hours having ordered some diazepam from the surgery some time ago. I like to have one with me just in case when I am flying.  After three visits to the pharmacy, three visits to the surgery where just before close of play,  my doctor appeared to explain that I couldn't prescribed this, due to the fact that they couldn't be insured in case someone was drowsy when they needed to escape the plane. Infuriating waste of time.  Meanwhile an email from Auringy saying that there might be a problem with the flight tomorrow.  Home from the futile business at the surgery pausing to quaff a  pint, and buy some

A pretty quiet, getting on with it sort of day. Lorraine's Uncle Steve with us for Breakfast, who shared a graphic account of his stroke a few years ago, which, as a hypochondriac I found a bit twitch inspiring. Lorraine and Steve made off to Pat and Maureen's place. I did a spot more recording with Robin, and later some editing. Also did more work on the Kenniad between things. Trying to not talk about this too much, just work.  Off to the gym, at lunchtime. First time in a while, which was pleasing. Then a few more bits till Uncle Steve and Lorraine came back having taken Pat and Maureen off to get their injections. A quiet night in, chatting with Steve and watching a spot of telly. Nice to get to know him a bit better.  The US election voting tomorrow. God help us if Trump wins.

To Stanmer Park, to pick up the results of our pottery workshop, imprinting bits of plants or lace into the clay. We were pleased with the bits we got back.  Then we drove into Brighton, down Osbourne Road where we lived, and into Preston Park. We walked across the park, which was looking lovely, to the breast clinic as Lorraine had an appointment for a scan. We had been worrying about this for a couple of weeks, but after two scans and a chat with doctor we were very reassured to learn there was nothing to worry about. Feeling greatly relieved, a saunter back across the park. We drove to Anton's house, picking him up to go off for a cheeky drink in the Brick on Preston Street. Good to see him, and play a game of bones. Anton, greatly to his satisfaction, slaughtered everyone. I barely got a point. He showed us some photos of Oskar modelling clothes, and told us he'd seen Klaudia that day, and generally caught up a bit. I drank some dark lager which was lovely. Lorraine and I h