Territorial

Who hogged all the seed? You hogged all the seed. Right up until a Blackbird swooped in with a lot of noise and kerfuffle, when you beat a hasty retreat into the depths of the nearest yew tree. If you were human, I'd be muttering "All mouth and trousers".

As you can see, it was even darker in Holy Trinity churchyard this afternoon than it was yesterday. This was not amusing, because when I'd set off for Stratford my Met Office app had been promising an hour of sunshine. By the time I arrived, however, it was saying Sunshine? Did we say sunshine?? Mmmm... sorry. What we actually meant was... rain.

Sigh.

Anyway, I got a lot of stuff done: took a huge bag of books into the Oxfam bookshop, bought nice wrappingy stuff, sourced a few extra bits and pieces for the Boy Wonder and the Baby Brother, bought a poinsettia and the ingredients to make a chicken liver pâté for a post Christmas buffet, had coffee, walked a few thousand steps, and took a shed load of photos, of which I'll be keeping... seven. And the Met Office was wrong again, by the way, because it didn't rain until I was almost back home again.

Removing the books from my bag-for-life, the Oxfam bookshop assistant, an attractive lady of a certain age (by which I mean older and better turned-out than me) said, "Oh! Management books!" Here we go, I thought - she's going to say they don't want them. Instead, she said, "Did you see that Charles Handy's died? I was reading his obituary in The Times this morning." "Oh," I said. "That's sad." "Well, he was 92," she replied, brightly. I felt quite bright myself, and a fair bit lighter, as I skipped away from the management books and sauntered off up the street.