Not bathing but walking

Spent most of today in a miasma of exhaustion, having put out the light last night at 2.45am. (I reminded myself that this is what we do on Christmas Eve). We slept in, so I wasn't up until over an hour later than usual, but I still managed to wash all the clothes we'd had away and hang them out in a fresh breeze. I also trailed, on foot, to the Co-op for enough shopping to tide us over into next week; I almost regretted the walking because I bought more than intended and it fair weighed me down. 

We went for a walk in the late afternoon simply because sitting like meerkats for two hours, as we did in the car last evening trying to shield our eyes from the sunset, has left me anyway with a painful back and hip area and walking seemed the only sensible option. Toward was sunny and blowy and we met people we've not seen for the best part of two years despite frequent walks along the beach road, which is where we'd originally met them. They've both recently had Covid; we are still wondering when it'll strike us. Thursday evening seemed a likely event ...

On the subject of Thursday evening, I've been reading reviews of the Hamlet production we saw, and am amazed at the tepid reactions to what I perceived as a magical reinterpretation in 90 minutes of a play that normally lasts more like 3 hours. Maybe it's because I'm so familiar with the original - I reckon I could just about take a part in it - and have studied the text in such detail (first at school, then at university, then as a teacher determined that my pupils might grow to love it as much as I do) that I had no problem at all in seeing the main character portrayed by two people. I may even get to explaining why this is so, but maybe not on this site and certainly not at this time of night (again!). But one friend whom I mostly meet online summed it up perfectly when he commented (on my blip entry, but on Facebook) "Described with the excitement and joy of someone who has seen an epiphany from the transformed familiar."

For that insight, and for Munroist's obvious enjoyment, I am grateful.

Blipping the blue Firth of Clyde from the shore road. If you look closely you'll see PS Waverley on the horizon.