As you know, I am not greatly convinced that the current outbreak of bat flu has been sufficiently terrible to merit driving our national finances into a state of embarrassment bordering on humiliation.
I voiced this opinion, at his request, I might add, to a cross man in the taxi the other day who disagreed with me, rather vociferously.
He asked me, in a hectoring tone, how I could account for sixty thousand deaths every month more than there usually were?
I queried, with gentle interest, where he might have heard that figure, which made him even crosser. Everybody knows, he told me, it is all over the television.
Hurrah for the BBC.
Unkindly, and for my own amusement alone, I wondered if he could help me understand by telling me what percentage of the population that figure represented.
He did not even hesitate, it was just over ten percent, he told me.
You first read it on these pages, everybody, ten percent of the population has died of bat flu every month since March. It is now October.
I suppose on the bright side, it won’t be very long before queues outside the Co-op are a thing of the past.
I was not unkind enough to smirk, but there was an effort involved, and I was obliged to content myself with a quiet but smug assurance of my own superior understanding of the world. It was a fine moment.
It is troubling to consider that we do not require intelligence testing before granting people the vote. Elections are won and lost over matters of grave economic concern, and you are still able to have your small say, even if you do not understand how to calculate percentages.
He gave me a tip anyway, which surprised me. I would not have given a tip to anyone so patronising.
As I am writing these words it is half past four in the afternoon, and it is almost dark.
I think this is as much due to the streams of heavy rain pouring from the slate-grey sky as it is to the adjusted clocks causing the Gods to arrange an early sunset.
The world has become wet, and sodden. This morning’s walk was a dreary affair, trampling over fallen leaves crushed into the mud. Little rivulets of water trickled off the brim of my hat, and when I got home I put my boots in the hearth to dry. Thank goodness for the fire.
I am on the taxi rank, but nobody is getting in taxis.
The weather forecast for the weekend has been talking about floods. I would not be coming here for a holiday, even if it is half term. I do not think I would like to go anywhere for a holiday. It is a time for drawing the curtains and sitting by the fireside.
I had an unexpected sit by the fireside myself today, which was a great pleasure. Usually, as you know, my day is spent running from one tiresome job to the next, which was what I had expected from today, but just before I went for my dog-paddle around the park, my phone beeped, and it was Ritalin Boy’s Other Grandma, telling me that she and Ritalin Boy had a bit of space in their day and that they thought perhaps they might come and visit me.
I was jolly pleased about this.
It seemed to be ages since I had seen Ritalin Boy, who is far less wearisome now that he is almost ten. I confess to finding four year olds incomprehensible hard work, but you can have a relatively sensible conversation with a ten year old, and they are not nearly so interested in poo.
His Other Grandma and I sat by the fire with cups of tea whilst he bobbed about and chattered, until eventually he remembered Oliver’s Playstation and disappeared. After that we had another cup of tea, undisturbed, and I could quite cheerfully have stayed there for the entire afternoon, except they had to go.
I was sorry about this, because I like loafing about chatting very much indeed, most especially when the fire is lit and the rain is thundering down on the conservatory roof outside.
Also it meant I had to get ready for work.
I thought I had plenty of time but I managed to be late anyway.
You will be pleased to hear that I have almost used up my pictures of going for a walk in Scotland. I will have to try and remember to take a different one tomorrow.
