Partly lack of time, partly uncertainty about my own feeling on some subjects, so an interval, possibly a lucid interval, if such a thing exists.
Down the road in L's enormous and magnificent garden, with daughter, son-in-law, granddaughter, and son-in-law's parents who have come down for family visits. The man who mows the lawn - L wouldn't be able to do this by herself now - stops by for a cup of tea. He sells hard wood for burning. 'Only two more years left of it,' he says. 'Won't be no more after that. All used up. Don't know what we're going to heat with.'
Son-in-law, R, says he has been approached by three US TV channels wanting to make a reality show out of his book about Armageddon. Best get some practice maybe.
There is a full moon tonight. Out for supper and back late. Portends little sleep. What's that splendid Charles Cotton quatrain?
The drunkard now supinely snores
His load of ale sweats through his pores,
But when he wakes the swine shall find
A crapula remains behind.
That's just as remembered, unchecked. But one is not drunk, only imagining being drunk. One of the cats crying in the dark.