I am back to the Kindle again, and reading a splendidly gripping book written by the QC who prosecuted the Yorkshire Ripper.
I do not have an intentional bibliographic theme of murder mysteries at the moment, it was just the first on my reading list.
All the same, I think I had better desist from such bloodcurdling yarns, otherwise I am going to find myself too nervous to empty the dogs in the Library Gardens at night.
I am sorry to say that this has happened before. I am very easily susceptible to the products of an over-active imagination, and scary books leave me looking over my shoulder in anxious trepidation.
I do not watch scary films at all. I discovered very early in life that once you have a horrible image in your head, you can never get it out again, like Japanese knotweed in your garden. In my youth I recall being terrified by the graveyard scene in A Fiddler On The Roof, which is fairly dark and troubling by the standards of musical theatre anyway. As a child I failed to notice the dreadfulness of the pogroms and the racism and the ever-present threat of violence, but the white hands twisting their way up out of the soil disturbed my solitude for a long time afterwards.
It is nice to have grown up enough not to be frightened of dead people any more. Indeed, when I have not been influenced by grim and suspenseful reading matter, I do not suffer in the least with any kind of night time fears these days. It often surprises me when my customers tell me that they do. Women occasionally confess that they would be too scared to walk home by themselves, although when pressed they never seem to know exactly what frightens them.
I must admit to to helping their fears along with stories of werewolves in remote car parks. It is always good to encourage people not to walk home.
Not many people walked home today, partly because of the truly dreadful weather, and partly because there were not many people here in the first place.
I would not be here either if Barbados was open and if I had any money. I got so wet emptying the dogs this morning that I had to get completely undressed when I got home. My trousers were so sodden that when I picked them up off the floor they left a puddle of water behind them.
We had trudged around the park, grimly and without enthusiasm. Pepper has hurt her foot and so is being obliged to poo in the back yard at the moment. This is because once she is allowed outside she dashes about and wrestles with Roger Poopy until she can barely limp home.
This morning the other dogs got as far as the park, emptied themselves hastily, and then both tried to slope off back home again.
I shouted for them sternly, since we were all drenched already they were jolly well going to be exercised.
They put their heads down and their tails between their legs and slunk after me reluctantly through the mud.
We were all glad to get home. I tried to empty them again before I went to work, and got them as far as the back door before they both turned around and legged it back to their cushion in front of the fire.
It has not been a day for outdoor activities. I took some very gloomy holidaymakers back to their tent this evening. They had originally booked to go to Crete, and were not appreciating the substitution.
The house is draped about with washing hanging limply all over the place. The hearth is full of boots, steaming gently and smelling faintly of wet leather. The cushion in front of it is full of dogs, who are trying their hardest not to get wet again.
I will be glad when the weather changes.
You will not be surprised to learn that I took the picture a few days ago.
I did not take one today because of getting my telephone camera wet.
They do not work as well afterwards.
