When the wind blows ...

I can't recall if I mentioned watching "Made in the 80s" last week - the first in a series which covered years of such upheaval in my life, my CND years and the effect political protest had on my own personal life. The programme mentioned Raymond Briggs' picture story for adults, When the Wind Blows, and I remember buying it and reading it with growing horror at innocence destroyed by a nuclear attack. Today's wind, of course, was a more benign force, but when I went to meet Di for a walk in Benmore Gardens this afternoon I was amazed at the transformation in the few days since I went there. The photo above shows the result in the area of the pond, where only a few jewel-like leaves are left hanging over the water where before there was a riot of dense colour. The extra photo shows another tree whose remaining leaves looked to be edged with fire. It was magical.

All this came at the end of a busy day, socially. Himself went off early to a hospital appointment on The Other Side, leaving before the wind rose so high as to threaten the ferries - though in fact it never became as bad as the forecast threatened. I had a friend round for coffee to discuss a plan for next week which might not happen, but which led to a flurry of text messages. Two parcels that I had been expecting arrived. I did a washing and draped the components damply around over chairs. I didn't make the soup I'd thought of making, but I did have a long chat on the phone about Funchal while simultaneously tracing my way around the streets on Google Earth Street View.

Then came the walk in Benmore, again discussing next week, followed by a mad hunt for some books which might have been in our loft but turned out to be in the loft of a friend - she thinks. 

The day ended with Himself's curry. The news seemed to be entirely trivial, in a way, though I suspect I fell asleep after the piece about Elon Musk and Twitter. I'm sure there is more we could be hearing about. 

And now, once more, it's bedtime. It seems a terrible waste of time left not to fill every moment with memorable activities, but on the other hand it might kill me do all that beckons ...