Liz Williams: journal

I have been in Gloucester, out to lunch with my parents as it is my mother's birthday. We went to the New Inn, which was new in about 1435. I haven't been there for almost that long: it is half timbered, and very dark. Allegedly, the last person to put on a play there was one W. Shakespeare, but only allegedly. It is also supposed to be the place where Lady Jane Grey got the heads up about her, well, heads off.

And it is now pouring with rain.

Not much of note. The weather was fabulous and I have spent most of the afternoon in the garden, 'helped' by the cat. I am made to understand that my horticultural performance was satisfactory, but only just.

Meanwhile other local gardeners have not been so fortunate, with a recent massive police raid on a house behind the supermarket in Glastonbury that some enterprising soul had entirely converted to the cultivation of cannabis (the house, not the supermarket - that's a bit much even for this neck of the woods). Must have shown up on the police copter infra-red like the Hindenburg.

More nature notes, of a conventional, uh, nature: there is a flock of lapwings on the field, and the catkins are starting to come out on the birch trees. Slightly further north, my mother found a snowdrop (but before you all go 'aaaah', she also found a dead mutilated dove alongside it. We suspect cat, unless there are mutant killer snowdrops in Gloucestershire now).

Nearly 1 dead mouse a day has appeared in this household since I moved in. That's been just over 2 months now, so roughly 60 mice. Sobering.

I have also had rather too many (two) conversations today with people who have lost parents over Xmas. Tis the season, unfortunately, but as I have reason to know, it really puts a downer on the festive season. Good thoughts winging your way.

Compliment of the week from boyfriend: "You are the least simian person I know." Why, thank you, darling, I think. Although round here it might not be saying all that much.