Islands clear for the first time in days. Skies up here still murky, but wind light. Granny hauls herself out of bed with usual difficulty, and falls on coffee, kindly set up by Beloved.
Handsome has appeared, very doleful, in dark glasses. Has been hugged and reassured. All he wants, he says, is to know that Mrs H is OK. He has now gone off, still doleful, to get a piece for the cement mixer: Beloved is about to make rabbit with figs, for the freezer and next month's guests: the cat is pestering for more food but will not be allowed any till he has downed his meat doctored with the last of his anti-biotics: Granny will take herself for a shower, thereafter write the odd email, and thereafter - slowly and reluctantly thereafter, she is so disheartened by the whole thing - writer granny where are you ? - she will return to her book.
(Pondering meantime, after reading article in Guardian why British over 50's don't turn themselves into a power bloc as in the US of A. Because so many of the better heeled head for warmer places? Or because we're all too bloody polite? Or maybe just tired?) Granny pxx