It’s been a thin week, somehow. It feels like treading water, something I am not very good at either in the swimming pool, or metaphorically.
Still waiting for overdue grand-baby #2, and grand-baby #3 is also a couple of weeks away. The days are grey, dry and chilly thanks to a brisk north-easterly. I love Scandi-drama, but they can keep their dour weather.
Spring does not appear to be imminent, although I have ventured into the garden and found it satisfying. After the endless rain of 2012 our clay soil has turned soft and you can pull up the burgeoning weeds quite easily. I even did a major job of moving a Rosa Glauca which had outgrown its space. I have no idea if it’ll work, but there are embryonic buds on the stems I pruned and it couldn’t stay where it was. I go out now and then to offer a few words of encouragement.
But a calf/shin strain has precluded any running or walking, even when the paths aren’t icy. My serotonin-fuelled pride in last year’s achievements seems a distant dream. I shall have to start over.
Even the news doesn’t seem to amount to much, and the rolling 24 hours a day which broadcasters have to fill make that all the more obvious. The economy is dull, politics are dull and trivialised.
But then perhaps one should welcome the opportunity offered by a low-key week now and again. The chance to be more than to do, and to recharge the batteries for dramas and excitements that will come with a change in the wind direction.