Another panting effort early this morning. The highlight was being sandwiched between two 4x4s in a narrow lane. We were all terribly English about the situation, and are lucky not to be there still, gesturing to each other to plea-ease go first.
These early morning outings are almost surreal. You are of this world alright, but it’s a kind of meta-world in which you constantly question what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. It’s all strangely remote, like I’m watching myself through a porthole in hell, never quite certain which side of the wall I’m on.
The day’s moment of insight came as I plodded past the deer by the lake. It was the realisation that the Abramovitch curse on football is a bit like life under the Tories. It’s some nightmare you can’t do anything much about. So you just have to shrug your shoulders and dig in for what’s bound to be English football’s 18 years of corrosion and corruption; the gradual dismantling of the world you thought you knew and could rely on. There’s something about the sneering of the classless rich, the lottery winner who thinks he’s done something to deserve it, that would turn us into murderers without much extra prodding. The consolation, the thing that keeps us on the right edge of sanity, is the certain knowledge that it will end in tears and disgrace and cat-fighting.
We have a pond. It took 6 hours to fill with about 2000 litres of water yesterday evening, but I couldn’t admire it until this morning’s daylight came; no great crested newts to report yet. As I think I mentioned, we have a much bigger pond project to keep us warm over the winter. This one has been a good rehearsal.
Here’s to tomorrow morning. Let it blow; drench the earth and make it shiver and shake. It’s what bare arms and legs are for. It’s what 06:30 is for.
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
