Making stock

In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.

I crawl across the Forth in a stranded rope of brake lights. It’s cold, but the gritters have been busy, so I’m home lighting the fire before dawn.

Among other things, I finish boiling the sheep bones, leaving a huge pot of stock and a tall stack of ribs to be picked.

Curry for tea (yes- lamb) followed by ice cream (and maple syrup). Then it’s time for a movie. Tonight only, The Age Of Innocence is showing, because they were talking about it on the radio last night. A luscious film by Scorsese with a great cast - not fast moving, but satisfyingly tortured. I wonder whether I would appreciate Edith Wharton as an author.