I kept notes while we were away with a view to blogging them when I got back.
I find I wrote a page on Sunday about whether Lord Olivier was gay or not. Frankly, who cares?
And I have a note telling me to write something about talk radio. Basically, we were in this antique shop in Goudhurst and the owner had talk radio on as mood music. Isn't talk radio frightful? Hoarse-voiced males with eyes like hard-boiled aggs (I could see them with the inward eye that is the bliss of solitude) roaring at one another about bloody foreigners. Did it put me in a mood to buy antiques? No, it did not.
Monday we were in Cranbrook buying cheese. The cheese guy in Cranbrook used to be a wine merchant and brings the same kind of connoisseurship to his cheese he must once have brought to his wine. We bought £25 worth of the stuff .
That night the sheep next door broke into my mother's kitchen garden and stripped her raspberry canes and trampled everything else. There's a new lamb in the flock. The owners have called her Bonus on account of her having been conceived by accident long after the closing of the official season for sheepy sex.
Yesterday was my mother's birthday. In the evening we took my her out for dinner at The Blue Bell in Somewhere-or-other. A boozed up ex-soldier bought us all a drink and insisted on waltzing with my ma and calling her "gal". A good time was had by all.
And now we're home and while there's no rain this very instant there has been and there's going to be.