Illusive brightness ...

When I went to bed last night, at the crazy hour of 1am, it was blowing a hoolie and raining hard, even though the wind was warm. I left the curtains open to let the air in the one window that wasn't whistling at me, and was surprised to be wakened by the sun on my face this morning. The light was extraordinary, with an other-wordly quality that had me hanging out of the window in my nightie (again!) to capture it - I didn't clock the lone bird wheeling in the wind until I uploaded the photo. I'm rather pleased with it.

Really, that first light was symbolic of the rest of the day. The weather deteriorated into greyness and showers, still warm but decidedly bleak; my mood went in the same direction. I find I'm getting increasingly irritable at my surroundings - the piles of stuff sitting around the house made even less bearable by the new additions of mail being left to mature, as it were, so that there will be nothing (ie virus) left alive on it. Are we alone in this? Do other people have beautifully tidy homes because they've had time and, God help us, the inclination to do something about them?

Enough. My only distraction today was a discussion at the church about where the cantor (me) can stand to sing without breathing on anyone. The BBC tonight carried a half-baked report on how singing has been found to be no more dangerous than speaking, despite all the hoo-hah about it. Apparently it's shouting that's bad. 

And a silly discussion about cold remedies in our childhood - memories of which seem to have become a refuge in these trying times. As the older child in an immediately post-war family, I caught everything going and spent quite a lot of time being ill - and gosh, did we do ill properly in these days. None of this getting up to sit cosily on a sofa watching telly, of course - not only was there no telly, there was nowhere especially warm and comfy to sit during the day. A well child might play in the kitchen, where the range was always on, but there was one comparatively comfy basket chair next to it and that was all. Besides, one got in the way ... No: if you were ill you were in bed. You had cough medicine (Famel Syrup, anyone?) and nose drops (Mistol - what on earth was that?) and for coughs you might have your chest rubbed, like John Brown's baby, with camphorated oil. And I have a distinct memory of how vile Disprin tasted when crushed in raspberry jam ...

It's a miracle any of us survived to be threatened by Covid_19, dontcha think?