Lockdown from Bridport - Part 3 - Day 25

 I woke up after dreaming I was wearing a very large pullover with Rupert Bear on the front. What's that all about then? I skipped downstairs to make tea, feeling very virtuous indeed. I had actually managed not to succumb to anything deemed detrimental to my health last night. Placing the tray on the bedside table I proceeded to pour. Is it me or is there anyone else out there that is particular about the cup they drink their tea out of first thing? Pondering that I may be becoming set in my ways, or even, pernickety in my advancing years, I failed to notice the tray sliding off. The jug of milk went everywhere. I had balanced it on the sturdy tome of Captain Tom's, 'Tomorrow will be a good day', a most refreshing look at the life of a man who is simply happy with his lot in life and doesn't whinge once, even when his marriage fails to be consummated after many years... You can't fail to love him.

Friday is when I generally do the weekly shop and for some reason, which I can't recall now, I went to Morrisons rather than Waitrose. The first mistake was to go there in the first place and the second was to walk rather than take the car. The checkout queues were a joke so I decided to take my laden trolley and attempt self service, saving Morrisons a few bob on paying people to look after their paying customers... By the time I had unloaded, swiped everything through, placed it all on the weighing scales, paid and loaded up my pull along trolley (yes you may well mock) I found I had bought too much to fit in. I 'helped myself' to one of their plastic bags. I had visions of being stopped at the doorway. Sadly, as I had prepared a little speech in my head, no-one even so much as challenged me. 

Plodding back up the hill I thought my arm was going to part company from its socket. I had just unloaded and collapsed onto a kitchen chair when 'The Undertaker' walks in. I recount to him the highlights of my day, right down to the very last detail, which I won't bother to repeat here because it might have you feeling sorry for him, or something equally ridiculous.

The sun had appeared late afternoon so we made haste to the beach to collect kindling. You can't beat smooth pieces of wood washed by the ocean for popping on the fire. Having armed ourselves with a large bucket we found the beach to be, for some strange reason, devoid of its usual bounty of driftwood. However the air was invigorating and the waves rolled and crashed on the shore. It was a real winter sea, the flinty greyness glinting cruelly in the last rays of sun. 

Homeward bound with thoughts of a crackling fire this evening. The weekend is upon us and yet it feels flat and strange. I long for the day when the vibrant Saturday market resumes and our market town is alive with the bustle of people and, of course, I can open my shop once again.

Meanwhile my thoughts turn to a wee apero, (it is the weekend). In the supermarket I had bumped into a couple of friends brandishing an identical bottle of Bombay Bramble (gin) to the one in my trolley. 'What are the chances of that' we exclaim laughingly. 'It's my birthday' she explains, 'Happy Birthday' I exclaim, 'mine too'. In March...