We are having a burst of excitingly chilly weather.
Our few days of holiday were quite splendid in the weather department, clear and sunny and cool without being bitter. We needed our jumpers and coats and scarves, but the sun was bright, and we were quite warm enough on our little expeditions about the town to feel comfortably smug with ourselves.
Since we have come home the bright skies have turned to a wintery steel-grey. It is cold.
The wind has been howling over the fells and whipping along the lake, churning up an awful white-topped frenzy as it goes.
The Library Gardens are frozen and grim, and full of shivering birds. The robin by the entrance was completely tennis-ball shaped with his feathers standing on end this morning. We had got thick padded coats on, but the icy wind easily cut through them, and even the dogs, who are usually enthusiastic dawdlers and investigators of everybody else’s deposits of wee, shivered and scurried and rushed in haste to wait for us at the gate to go home.
Mark pointed out that all of the starlings in the highest treetops were sitting facing into the wind, maybe so that it didn’t get underneath their feathers so easily.
We pondered this as we ploughed along into the sort of wind which makes smiling hurt your teeth. We wondered if perhaps they enjoyed the feeling of it more than we do. I don’t like the feeling of the wind in my face at all, but it struck me that a bird who felt like that would think that flying was an unhappy cold thing to be doing, so maybe the wind feels exciting or exhilarating if you are a bird.
When we had emptied the dogs I braved the flurries of snow to take my library books back, and Mark and Oliver had breakfast. They are both more enthusiastic about breakfasts than I am, eating is an important occupation for Mark.
Unless I am on holiday, when obviously the world is a different place, my digestive system prefers to start the day with a gradual reminder of its purpose. This is greatly helped along by the introduction of several cups of strong coffee before anything more taxing is inflicted on it. This may be just as well, since Mark and Oliver eat enough for all of us and this morning managed to dispose of an entire packet of brioche, a couple of croissants, some chocolate spread sandwiches and half a loaf of cornbread, toasted and spread thickly with pate.
After the library I did quiet things in our warm house, ironing and making everywhere tidy again, and Mark brought in logs out of the freezing wind, with a rush of chill air every time he opened the door. He stacked them as high as they would go around the sides of the fire, because the warmer and drier they are when we put them in the stove, the better, and the cold weather looks as though it might last for a few days.
Later on Mark retired upstairs, because Oliver is home, and they like to play games together. Mark pretends that he does it as a father-son bonding activity, but secretly he actually rather likes playing on the Playstation. He is rubbish at computer games, compared to Oliver, at least, and Oliver is patiently teaching him. They are terribly competitive with one another, and there were shouts and yells of laughter coming from the bedroom all afternoon.
I went upstairs once or twice with washing to put away, and apple juice to make sure they didn’t get scurvy, but they were both so involved in whatever it was that they were doing that I am not sure if they even noticed, so I had a very pleasant afternoon listening to The Forsythe Saga on Radio Four and cooking things for picnics and hanging up washing, until my nest felt safe and ordered again, and it was time to go to work.
This has been a dull entry, because it has been such a quiet day. If it makes up for it at all, I am currently writing from outside the nightclub where tonight I have watched a couple of loud and interesting fights, one of which got in my taxi with what looked very much like a thoroughly broken nose, and left some of his blood behind on the seat, much to my irritation. There has been one optimist who mistakenly thought that I might like to kiss him, a couple who growled insults at one another all the way home, and two alarming looking skinheads from Manchester who turned out to be adorably charming and witty and left a generous tip.
Also the wind has dropped.
Spice of life, and all that.
