Up to Totnes this morning for supplies, the usual Friday loaves and fishes. Despite dire weather all of the car parks were full by ten. Black Friday. I can’t see it myself: surely everyone shops online? Returned home and, fortified by coffee and cognac, moved the chickens (something has tunnelled beneath the coop and is endeavouring to break through the floor). Stocked up on firewood and changed the batteries powering the fences against surface raiders. The yard’s a quagmire and there’s little respite in sight.
Mrs G. is simmering a giant cauldron of rib-sticking ox bits (tails and cheeks) in an effort to keep everyone fed over the weekend. I just wish she hadn’t used a bottle of my Pomerol for flavouring. I see the first net of seasonal sprouts has appeared in her vegetable box.
Our McCarthyite kiddie fiddler inquiry appears underway. Every generation needs its bread and circuses, and governments are only too happy to oblige.