smokingboot

Well the weather outside is frightful...

Admittedly it's only rain, but that's excuse enough to do nothing. This cold's just beginning to edge away. Just as well, I was beginning to rattle with all those pills.

Rotten dream, absolutely rotten. There was a woman who was very ill, a black lady, someone I wanted to heal and couldn't. It was looking pretty bad for her. I was a doctor who had been campaigning for something that could help, now lamenting my lack of political clout to influence the issue, and explaining this to a senior doctor who looked just like Ken Clarke. He stared at me for a long time with a gentle expression, as I told him of my wish to help her, how I should have gone into politics a long time ago. He didn't reply, and I don't know if his unspoken message was 'Well my dear you would have been terrible at it,' or 'you could do all this now you know,' or something else entirely. He just sat there looking at me meaningfully. That's the thing about meaningful dreams; they never oblige you by explaining themselves.

I guess this is a not so subconscious reaction to Brexit, the Tories, the whole damn thing. It's just like my arrogance to think I could change or 'heal' anything!

In other meanderings, 2020 is our 20th anniversary, not married but together, and R is suggesting a citybreak away to celebrate. He wants a two week stay in Tuscany earlier in the year, which sounds excellent, but we have already committed to the end of October in Whitby for a week, plus at some point I must visit Mum. If it wasn't for the excellent and beloved company we will be joining in Whitby, I could do without.

All these arrangements plus our plans for a big holiday next year mean the anniversary celebration will have to be something like a citybreak, short haul and easily manageable from Edinburgh. I want something romantic and charming. Heidelberg, Pula, or Dubrovnik seem like pretty options. Lisbon looks cheap and beautiful and I wish I was more interested in it!

I was just about to finish this when I learned that the erstwhile owner/landlady of the Covenstead in Glastonbury, Adele Black/Clough, has died. She was a tall and striking woman, her considerable beauty somewhere between Hecate and Mrs Rochester, her breakfasts vast, her stories as outrageous as her interior decoration, her soul fiery, creative, and very generous. The Covenstead B&B was a wonder of colour and arcane brik-a-brak. Adele very much wanted to sell it to Whimsy, and perhaps the latter would have enjoyed life in Glasto, but she's in Spain now and extremely happy; and the Covenstead could never be as brilliant or as bonkers without Adele.