Honestly, I’m running out of things to say about our beastly weather now. Today was more like November than March: by the time I’d put out some bird food and squelched round the garden for five minutes in search of a photo, my hands were so cold they were painful. I’m almost certain that when I put the anemones outside for fresh air, several of them trembled their bottom lips at me, but I pointed out that they’re supposed to be hardening up in preparation for being planted out, and that skulking inside wasn’t going to do them any good in the long run.
It’s not doing me all that much good either. Apart from two forays into the garden and a twice-round-the-village walk I spent most of the day at my desk working on photo files, and I’ve now reached the point of boredom at which if I never see another photograph I’ll be well able to tolerate the disappointment. Tomorrow’s weather is forecast to be slightly better, and if it is I will be practising my social distancing in the open air, somewhere other than here.
My principal piece of self-care today involved staying off Twitter and away from my news feeds. R’s was to take out a Netflix subscription.
