one crying eye

Long COVID?

I think that every small ailment I now have is a symptom of ongoing COVID infection and most probably this Long COVID that is referred to in the press.

Currently, painful heels which have persisted for weeks or months now (lost track), a smell of smoke in my nose most evenings (also had for months, since I lost my sense of taste briefly in March, to the extent of almost not noticing now but it’s still there), and now a strange rash on arms and legs including elbows and heels.

Of course, without paying for a test of some sort or checking in with a GP (and inevitably looking silly) I will probably never know. Makes me a little more careful wearing my mask in public though and trying not to touch things – for other people’s sakes, but I guess it will benefit me too if in fact I’ve never yet been COVIDified.

I expect all the symptoms could also be attributed to my time of life, but of course I particularly prefer NOT to think that.

Btw, I got all the paraphernalia out this morning to do my latest monthly UKBiobank blood test, only to realise at the last minute that this time they’ve asked me to do it on Tuesday! Big anticlimax, especially after pre-drinking several glasses of water to hydrate as instructed. Irritating consequences on a 2-hour Zoom call thereafter…

Back to sailing

After almost two years in a funk, I finally returned to my husband’s sailing boat this week for a two-night visit. In fairness to myself, he didn’t actually put the boat on the water last year, so this is only really a one-season funk. But it was very real, following an accident with the mast at the end of 2018 season. The less said about it the better…

Anyhow, I steeled myself and – as motivation (because I love a good journey on a train, or several) I booked a return railway ticket to Burnham-on-Crouch and we agreed a rendezvous. In fact, I arrived on foot at the marina from the station, just 30 minutes after he had sailed in from wherever he had moored up the night before.

Note: We have to stay in a marina when I am there, because the boat HAS NO FACILITIES! Whilst he may be perfectly happy to bucket and chuck it whilst tied up to a buoy or at anchor somewhere remote, I am afraid my days of even contemplating such things are not in the past because they never existed, ever, in the first place. I’m sure I’ve missed out on life quite considerably as a result, but I simply don’t care. I am also more nervous these days of anchoring in the middle of nowhere. When I was younger I just assumed he knew exactly what he was doing and that all would be well. Not quite sure why I’ve lost that assumption now.

We managed an extremely pleasant day sail, a lovely (and very greedy on my part) birthday dinner, and evening drinks with an old friend from work on the balcony of a very posh sailing club watching the sunset over the river. Perfect! Burnham-on-Crouch is the first place for a long while to tempt me as a realistic alternative place to live.

The strangest thing though. I have a grumbly bad back and am rarely comfortable in bed, including in our own house which is very annoying. We have already sent back one new mattress this year and I don’t know what to do next to improve matters. But when I am on the boat, despite my bunk being way too narrow, and the foot part too low, the ‘mattress’ being quite thin foam of no exceptional type, and not having a proper pillow, I invariably sleep well.

This time was no exception. I know that the outdoorsy nature of the stay will encourage sleep, but the point is that I wake up without being uncomfortable. Due to an unfortunate lack of electrical power on board, we were bedding down before 10.30pm and not getting up until after 7am. I could never stay in bed at home that long without pain.

A mad conundrum..

I’m not going to lose sleep over it though…

Enthusiastic Bottom!

I had a bit of a quiet day yesterday. My spirits were lifted unexpectedly by listening to the latest Playcrush podcast from the Old Vic and Sherman theatres. It features Hammed Animashaun, and is billed as a discussion about his chosen featured play, Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In fact, as with many of the other interviewees in this series, most of the time is taken up talking about the actor’s career. Here is a link to the podcast if you’re interested.

I’ve written about these podcasts before. They have all been interesting and this was no exception. I was lucky enough to see Hammed in the Bridge Theatre’s production of this play. It was one of the highlights of last year’s theatre fest for me and he was truly superb – hilarious. He played Nick Bottom – a wonderful part in any production of this play, but as he explained in this podcast, the Bridge’s version allowed for a different playing, which I loved when I saw it live and also on TV during lockdown.

Despite listening to earlier episodes and also remembering Hammed’s Bottom, I was still taken by surprise at how uplifting this episode of Playcrush was. I rather randomly selected it from my Podcast list whilst out on an uninspiring walk to make a delivery.

What was wonderful was the unrelenting enthusiasm Hammed showed for his craft and career. If anyone needs inspiration as an actor, he’s surely your man. His repeated references to the super-supportive school drama teacher who persuaded and encouraged him were so good to hear. As he talked about his career in chronological order and moved from one production or theatre to another, he was called out by his interviewer (Sherman Theatre’s Joe Murphy) for repeatedly describing each as ‘the best’. What an attitude to have! Should be compulsory listening for those who doubt themselves.

Of course, Hammed has bags of talent and others may not be so fortunate in that respect, but his description of the light bulb moments when he could see how he might actually succeed up on stage (seeing ‘someone like me’ up there) is so important to the future of theatre. Others in this series and in other interviews have said similar – but perhaps not with such gusto and tangible delight.

Now I have a challenge – what to listen to today to similarly raise the mood? Beat that, as they say.

Protest

I can’t recall ever going on a march or protest. I’ve never really been passionate enough about anything to remonstrate with authority so publicly. I’ve maybe signed the odd petition in my time, but that’s the limit. I even refuse to comment on social media if I think what I’m saying may in some way be held as a ‘political view’, and I’m wary of taking a stance on anything (ok, perhaps less wary these days – why the hell am I writing a blog in that case? Ah, but no-one reads it…so that’s not a problem then.)

Yesterday, however, I was part of an Irish anti-abortion protest. As the sun set over a north-west London school playground, I was yelling a slogan in my loudest cod-Irish accent at some poor young girl trying to access ‘the clinic’.

Yes, this was one of my occasional appearances in the world of film (or fillum in this case): a powerful short film, aiming to explore the continuing difficulties faced in Ireland by those seeking to terminate a pregnancy even though the national law was changed a couple of years ago following a public vote. As is usual when performing a Supporting Artist role, I only got to see a very small portion of the production in the making, but we were given the context beforehand. I believe the filmmakers to be in favour of abortion rights, and certainly against the fake clinics* which have apparently appeared in Ireland since the legalisation of abortion. The premise for my scene was that I was part of a group of protesters outside one of these clinics and we were chanting and shouting at a poor young actress who was trying to get into the clinic.

Some of us had been given in advance a line to shout randomly during the protest. Others chanted together. At the last minute, we were asked to ensure we used our best Irish accents. Aaargh! Just three angry words – in an Irish accent – how hard could that be? Well, if the film ever sees the light of day, then we may be able to judge that.

As usual, we were kept waiting for hours before our main scene was shot, but then it got exciting. In fact, it left me exhilarated and hoarse after all the shouting – through several takes and different camera angles. Also rather unnerved by how close the camera had come at times – swooping right in our faces – as I angrily gurned and screamed Oirishly into the middle distance whilst waving my Pro-life placard.

Oh god, will this somehow be my legacy? A shameful clip on the socials? – as if anyone would notice or care, but still… Or is this how I am discovered as a super-extra? The beginning of an acting career (lol)? As if!

A bewildering experience in fact. Screaming something I don’t believe, to further the cause of something I more probably do. And I suppose it’s just strange anyway: hours of waiting around in a smart school in a previously unknown part of London, followed by such an outburst.

The worst and weirdest part was having to make small talk for a sound pick-up at the very end of the day. ‘Just pretend you protesters are chatting among yourselves about how the day is going – oh, and don’t forget those Irish accents!’ Now, it’s one thing to hone three words in an approximation of a Dublin voice, but altogether another to witter on for 2 whole minutes to a complete stranger (from Hertfordshire, as it happens) as though we were well-acquainted Dubliners. Hysterical!

Better than sitting at home doing nothing though.

This was the last scene to be shot and, when complete, the director was very pleased and everyone burst into happy applause. It’s a wrap! Several of us trundled off to the tube station as darkness fell, and the moon shone over Wembley arch as we travelled companionably south continuing our chat, no longer constrained by accents but challenged for comprehension by our obedient use of face-masks.

*such clinics are said to have been set up in Ireland to lure unsuspecting women along under false pretences of being a place where abortion is available, and then pressure them unpleasantly to change their minds and keep their babies.

Of masks and varifocals

Breaking the habit of recent months, I popped into a shop today on my way back from a walk – rather than making myself wait until my next scheduled visit to Sainsburys.

Fortunately I had my mask and my credit card in my pocket. Aside from my house keys, this is all I normally carry these days and I try to remember always to have them in case my plans change on the spur of the moment.

So, I donned the mask and ventured into a Co-op store I have never visited before. Then spent what seemed like forever wandering aimlessly, trying to find the few items I thought I needed. Are you supposed to follow the direction of the footprints on the floor these days? If so, I transgressed and hope this will not catch up with me from the CCTV.

My problem lay in the combination of mask and varifocal glasses. Whereas in Sainsburys I roughly know where everything is – our lives are so predictable these days that I buy pretty much the same stuff each week – which means I can easily find what I need, today, not only was I unfamiliar with the layout of the store, but I couldn’t easily recognise any of the products without reading the names. Which I was struggling to do. I have got used to squinting awkwardly in Sainsburys to determine the Use By and Best Before dates. Here I could barely see whether this was a meat product or a fruit!

Ah well, on proper inspection at home, I seem to have mostly the right things.

I noticed that my right eye had a bit of a cry on the homeward walk too. Possibly because of the strain in the Co-op, but more likely the high winds which have continued to buffet us today, after yesterday’s impressive gales. Or perhaps it’s the onset of Autumn. Noooooo.

Wobbling down to Worthing

Yesterday my husband was taking part in a sponsored cycle from Hampton Court to Worthing with a bunch of friends and Boat Club associates. He left at some ridiculous early hour. I heroically dragged myself out of bed in time to wave him goodbye and take the obligatory ‘setting off’ photograph as he left the house.

I later managed to drive down to Worthing to collect him, stopping a couple of times on the way to meet the group as they meandered the by-ways (the roads which, theoretically at least, had the easiest gradients) rather than belting as fast as they could down the A24. They had decided to call this exclusive event the Worthing Wobble, perhaps to reflect the fact that few of them could legitimately call themselves youthful nor indeed actual cyclists, and thus the potential to wobble was reasonably high.

Part-way there, I joined a friend and supporter of the charity for which this was a fundraising event. She had an encouraging poster in the back of her car which she strategically parked alongside the road in one of the villages. We amused ourselves for ages trying to guess which of the very many packs of cyclists hurtling towards us on this Sunday morning was the one at which we were supposed to be waving our flags. Most pedallers smiled at us indulgently anyway as they whizzed past, until our own peloton eventually turned up after an extended delay outside a country church in the previous village. The delay mainly entailed waiting with varying degrees of patience for a straggler, looking fruitlessly for a not-too-public convenience and trying not to freak out (with garish lycra – these were most definitely archetypal MAMILs) the parishioners emerging from the early morning service who, by all accounts and somewhat remarkably, were of a vintage even older than the cycling bunch.

Using the A24 with my car, I easily reached Worthing but then found the business of parking slightly less easy. I believe I saw most parts of the town as I searched unsuccessfully for the car park my fellow supporter had somehow quickly discovered. I still don’t know where it was. Her full bladder clearly focused her mind rather more usefully than mine did! No matter, my car park was nearly empty – no doubt cripplingly expensive so close to the beach. Worry about that later – I’d got in with no more than a gentle graze of the unaccustomed cycle rack against the warning head restriction bar and I had other facilities more pressingly on my mind.

The cyclists all reached Worthing eventually, mostly intact. There were two distinct groups, plus one solo rider who claimed to have cycled on the A24 rather than the small roads and was adamant that he had not come by train. His choice of the main road was presumably less bucolic, but clearly faster – not only because of the geography but also because he avoided the endless discussions regarding which way next! Anyway, he was there much sooner than the rest of them as a result. The front runners of the pack seemed pretty relaxed – and even the slower group looked good (although admitted to some assistance from Red Bull and co-codamol towards the end).

The second-nearest Fish’n’Chip shop did a roaring trade (apparently much better than the closest one) and the local seagulls were much slower than those I have experienced in Devon and Cornwall in recent years. No-one actually lost any of their food to them, despite several menacing approaches.

Three hardy chaps took a dip in the sea before setting off home. I was not in the least bit tempted, even to paddle, as the churned-up water was grey-brown and weed-filled, but we were impressed nevertheless. Most of the group returned to London by cycle as well. Just one was obliged, for reasons of technical breakdown, to retreat to the train and enjoy his journey reading a newspaper and with one of his pedals secreted up his jumper. Bless.

This whole adventure has raised more than £2000 for charity and provided entertainment and camaraderie to such an extent that they are already planning next year’s. Wonderful wobblers.

And that expensive car park? £3 for the duration. Amazing.

Sweetly gruesome

Middle of the night.

Adjacent snoring situation. Overheated and not at all sleepy. Decamp to my daughter’s old room where a bed is always made up. Chuck off the piles of ironing awaiting attention. About to climb in with my book, when I notice some reddish spots and lumps on the far edge of the white duvet – up against the wall. Oh lord – has the cat had a ‘problem’ up here again? It’s really quite revolting – although mercifully not enormous.

I am grossed out, but also perplexed. It is, after all, not the best time of day to analyse deposits. Nevertheless, I am intrigued and look around me for more evidence. Horrifically, on the wall above the bed, I see what appears to be the remnants of someone’s brains, blown out – presumably – silently and before an almost-successful clear up of the body.

The clue is in the name – staring me in the face

Suitably annoyed now, given that I quickly and sensibly decided against the notions of either feline or cranial explosion, I moved to my son’s old room and settled to read in a less comfy bed there instead.

On enquiring of my daughter the next day, it seems that the ‘blood and guts’ were in fact sweets which had been affixed with glue to a birthday poster presented to her some 8 years ago. Obviously. These had survived on her bedroom wall all that time, until the temperatures rose above 35 degrees for an extended period last week.

Apocalyptic times.

She is coming next week to remove ALL items from the wall. This will perhaps save me from further macabre discoveries.

A story for a rainy day

It’s been a very rainy day.

I spent much of the time doing useful things.

When I’d done, I so wanted to sit in a comfy chair and read a book.

The two books I am currently reading are these. I am enjoying them and making good progress with both – one during the day and one in the evenings, no idea why.

But they were absolutely no good at all for a rainy day. I needed a story. A properly absorbing tale where I could tear through a couple of hundred pages, punctuated only by a coffee or looking out of the window to check if the rain had stopped.

And I didn’t have one to hand.

Thank goodness for the ‘useful things’ achieved (and for a brilliant #PlayCrush podcast with Denise Gough on my drizzly walk) – or it would have been a complete waste of a rainy day.

Hiding

I forgot to set an alarm. When I finally glanced at the clock this morning it was after nine. Horror!

I dressed and discovered my other half in his first floor office with his porridge. Odd…Then I noticed the window-cleaner’s brush waving in at us on its long pole. Aha…and oh no!

There followed an extended period of sitting on the stairs waiting for the window-cleaner to finish and leave. Both of us basically hiding, lest he notice how lazy we are.

As if he was going to tell all the neighbours. And who cares anyway?

I noticed that he then went on to clean the windows opposite. Their curtains were still closed. Good lord – what are people like?

Success(ion)

We had been saving the second season of Succession for the barren TV summer months and have completed it over the past few days. Thoroughly recommend – we were both completely hooked.

I have spent chunks of today trying to learn how to play the theme music on the piano. I have had some degree of success but, as usual, have fallen short of mastering the wretched thing – yet. But I have pinned down my favourite theme and can play those few bars reliably now.

That is satisfying, but I’ve also discovered that by working out what the notes are on the piano I can now visualise them in my head, and sing them too. How strange is the human musical brain.

Or maybe it’s just me that’s strange.

Anyway, I rewarded myself with a very long walk and multiple episodes of Desert Island Discs and The Road Less Travelled on my podcast machine.

However, my subsequent attempts to get the tune out of my head are failing dismally. Ah well…

Al fresco dining week

In the space of just one week, I have gone all out to make up for being housebound for so long.

An evening barbecue in a close friend’s garden – just two couples socially distanced but with so much chat to catch up
A 91st birthday celebration in a pub garden – six of us drinking fizz, eating snacks and sharing stories
A pub lunch generously provided by a film company (in lieu of any wages) – technically not al fresco, but due to the enormous heat, every single door and window was opened to capture the slightest breeze
A family birthday lunch in a restaurant nearby – just the four of us
A lunch up in London with a former colleague friend, making the most of a cooler day to sit outside and natter for hours together in one of our favourite restaurants

I think this has partly been just chance that so many opportunities arose in such a short period, but I think also there is the conscious effort to make the most of this more relaxed time before – inevitably, I fear – we are restricted once again.

The infections chart climbs slowly but relentlessly. I’ll be careful, but I really want to make the most of the freedoms we currently have. I suppose it’s good that we appreciate that more than ever before.

Super-heated break

I hadn’t realised it was a whole week since I posted a blog. In the meantime, I have been Twittering and Instagramming around – and doing some more filming (more of that another day). We have also started socialising a little – a socially-distanced back-garden barbecue at a friend’s house, a pub garden birthday gathering for another friend and a local restaurant meal with our kids to celebrate a birthday.

And – it has been unrelentingly hot. Our Edwardian house takes a few days to absorb hot weather, but there is now no refuge from the overpowering and debilitating heat. I have even been persuaded that it is worth running the risk (low, in everyone else’s opinion) of birds coming in through fully opened sliding doors and Velux windows in our bedroom overnight in order to mitigate the oppressive temperatures. Nevertheless, even with fenestration fully agape (yes, I’m in a pompous and overheated mood and running towards literary lunacy) it has still been TOO HOT.

There was a thunderstorm this afternoon and it is cooler now. The stormy rumblings continue, and the atmosphere is not yet refreshed, but we’re getting there.

I am not sure whether it is the unaccustomed social activity or just the heat which has distracted me from writing, but I will try to do better in the next few days.

Meanwhile, I think the pigeons are planning an invasion, so I might reduce the window apertures to cracks tonight.

DIM

I’ve only just realised that, whilst it’s perfectly fine to refer to Do-it-yourself as DIY, Doing-It-Myself is just DIM.

So, I wont.

Blindness – in a dystopian theatre land

Last week I said I was bored and booked a theatre experience.

The experience was last night. A ‘socially distanced sound installation’ called ‘Blindness’ at the Donmar Warehouse. I have written about it here.

I loved it. I would go to this type of production again, in restricted times or not.

However, I came home with a deep feeling of sadness that London is a changed place when most of the neon signs above theatres now just throw light on the people bedding down in their doorways and so few people are there to see any of it. Roll on our recovery.

Bored now

I really should be taking this opportunity to get creative, either with my writing or – perhaps more usefully – in the home-decoration department. Every room in the house needs something done to it, and in some cases I could probably do it myself with a little determination and a visit or two to the DIY store. Usually, once I get started on something I will see it through – it’s just taking that first leap, and I’ve managed to find a wealth of excuses throughout lockdown and beyond.

Hmm – instead I think I’ll go for another walk and book another theatre experience. Both useful in their way, I’m sure.

Musing on music

Although I usually listen to podcasts on my daily walks, I have recently added more music to the mix and discovered that I walk faster more easily when accompanied by tunes rather than words.

I have also been using Spotify more randomly than before – allowing it to choose tracks for me, rather than insisting on my own pre-determined playlist. I sort of objected on principle to this second guessing for a while, but I’m getting over myself a bit now and giving it a chance.

Deep in the Park the other day, a track called 5AM by Dave Gilmour came on. For some bizarre reason (and not because I was in a miserable mood this time) I thought ‘Oh this would be one for a funeral’. Then I saw the title and realised it quite definitely should not be for my own funeral, as it refers to a time of day with which no-one would ever associate me and with which I hope never to become over-familiar in this life.

So that was the end of that morbid thought.

It was rather atmospheric in the dappled sunshine though.

Cheeky

I have given in and had my hair re-tinted. I am so disappointed in myself – and so relieved. There was a particular prompt – I will share another day.

On my visit to the salon, there were the obvious changes involving masks, visors and distancing between stylists’ chairs. All good.

But the highlight for me was a customer, eighty if she was a day, approaching the young male assistant who was washing my hair at the time, wanting to leave him a tip and waving an actual banknote. “Can I put this in your pocket?” she asked, as he looked helplessly at her gesticulating with his shampoo-covered hands.

She looked at me mischievously. “It’s years since I’ve done this!” – and proceeded to invade the young man’s jeans pocket – his front jeans pocket. Slowly. To savour the moment I suppose. “Ooh, that’s tight…”

The poor guy. Not only had he been touched up royally by an octogenarian, but he now had his current ‘lady’ crying in fits of laughter, and his stylist colleagues similarly convulsed.

Made my day, for sure as well as hers.

I left my own tip safely at the till on my way out. He wasn’t my type.

Is it a bit weird…

…when I send a text to thank one of our volunteer delivery drivers (none of whom I have met) for doing five drops on a sunny day and get the response ‘My pleasure. Good for working up a sweat!’ ?. And then have to stop myself from making any further comment lest this becomes inappropriate somehow. What if the next thing is a photo?

Think it’s me being weird. Not sure.

#MeToo?

No, stop. It’s definitely me.

Grey highlights and hormone goggles

This lockdown business has meant enforced lack of hairdressing.

Dyeing my hair is my only beauty vice. I can’t remember exactly when it started, but I began to go grey fairly young and somehow determined that this was the one thing I could not allow. I wear very little make-up (just mascara really, although I would put a little foundation on each day when I was at work in an office), have never had a manicure or pedicure, waxed professionally only for one or two holidays and used a sun-bed just once in advance of my honeymoon. I don’t know one end of a facial from the other and always have to ask the nice John Lewis assistant to advise me when buying products for my daughter, who has somehow managed to acquire the necessary information from somewhere to lead a more normal beauty life than mine.

Anyhow, when I left full-time employment, I changed from having a top-up hair tint every fortnight in what approximated to my original brown, to going blonde (documented here, and here, in fact) and being painted rather less frequently. Whilst I acknowledge that I almost certainly look better blonde than I did before, I can’t quite reconcile myself to it.

I had pretty much decided to stick with the blonde for a while longer, until lockdown – already nearly a month after my holiday tint – meant that the grey growth became noticeable. And yet, not quite as noticeable on Zoom. Or even face to face in fact. I even have days when I quite like it (see this from just last week).

Having compared notes with someone else in a similar situation, I think I’m just going to leave it to grow out now, and perhaps just add a few light highlights here and there now and again. Can I contemplate long grey hair? Well, it seems to be grey and white and, as I always suspected, naturally highlighted, so perhaps it won’t just be the iron curtain of hair that I feared.

No-one sees women my age anyway do they? Who actually cares? As long as it’s not outlandish, I think I can deal with it. And if I can’t, well I’ll just put a face-mask on and no-one will know it’s me. Just another mad old bat with a bit of mascara on. Or I could spray paint it for the occasional outing.

So while I wander round the house catching occasional glimpses of myself in the mirror, I’ll have to hope that my strange hormonal equivalent of beer goggles will continue to convince me – at least on my cheerier days – that I actually look amazing.

Socially distanced singing

There is a problem with singing. Our Coronavirus experience has taught us that choral or other group singing is deadly and to be discouraged. As musical participation is one of the key ways that many people relax and recharge their mental wellbeing, the current restrictions and health advice are causing widespread difficulties. We are still waiting to see when we can get back together properly.

For the second time since the beginning of lockdown easing, I met with a small group of singing friends the other day in two adjoining gardens nearby. We separate ourselves by voice part and this means that there are fewer than six people in each garden. We can face each other, but at a considerable distance over the fence: high voices to the west, low to the east.

However, since our first fairly disastrous attempt a few weeks ago in a thunderstorm – when saving the sheet music from turning to pulp and trying not to paddle the grass into a muddy pond were our main priorities – we had sadly forgotten that a side problem was our inability to actually see each other from one garden to the other because we are mostly too short (or maybe I should say the fence is too high).

More than half an hour into our session this time, one of the higher voices piped up in surprise that I (a lower voice in the other garden) was actually present at all. And I never clapped eyes on her at all in the whole proceedings.

Most of us also decided that we should keep our face-coverings on. This is, after all, sensible Surrey. Singing into a face mask isn’t much fun I’ve decided. I ended up quite light-headed in the more energetic numbers, but of course I reassured myself that those are precisely the ones which would result in greatest droplet transmission if performed uncovered.

So, seven ladies of a certain age, mostly be-masked, several unable to see each other, generally confused about what to sing – although tending initially towards somewhat downbeat religious songs * – and on the verge of passing out. What better way to spend an afternoon you might ask? But we were somehow defiant, and as we filed out carefully along the shared side passage, and locked the gate so the cat could not escape, our group experience was somehow bonding and friendly.

No idea what the neighbours thought though. I think they were hiding. And I’ve seen no comments on the local WhatsApp group, so we’re either very quiet or at least less offensive than the recent spate of mystery – or possibly imaginary – bonfires.

*did not help my current two-day personal misery-fest tbh.