Sunshine. Birdsong. Big cruise ship. Today is going to be a warm day.
When I get to my big exercise moment, I might take swimming trunks.
The water glitters in the sunshine. To judge from the trees, there’s hardly any wind.
Flurry of posts yesterday, inviting me to help various friends by signing petitions to demand the sacking of a government adviser. Looked into it further, and found that the BBC had done a timeline of where the man drove and when he drove there.
In-depth investigation is so easy when the news fits into a template. Was it Archibald Cox? No, Howard Baker who said, “What did the president know and when did he know it?” About Nixon. Watergate.
Today, the drive to Barnard’s Castle fits into the slot in the template formerly occupied by the 18.5-minute gap in the White House tape.
My friends raising petitions to demand the sacking, et cetera. Indignant. Outraged. I hesitate to use the term “usual suspects”, but yeah – those friends. They’ve been noisily bothered about everything since the 2016 referendum. Serial petitioners.
Two seagulls have made a nest on my roof. This is not good news – not for the roof – but I can’t quite bring myself to interrupt their honeymoon.
When the family’s grown up and gone – which will be September, I’m told – I shall take steps to prevent their return.
Or not. I don’t know. Let’s see how they react to my presence in their territory once their children are born. Let’s check the roof, come September.
There were people on the beaches at the weekend. We went to a more secluded beach that doesn’t get much tourist traffic. Swimming. Picnic. Social distance. Locals, but not many locals.
Some of my serial-petitioner friends aren’t even British.
If I wanted to get into serial-petitioning, and to do it properly, I would have to take an interest in the government advisers working for foreign leaders – such as, for example, oh, let's say ... yes, the Swedish prime minister.
Who turns out to be Stefan Löfven, leader of the Swedish Social Democratic Party – thanks, Google.
Further search – yeah, okay. A name. An adviser. But he left in 2019. And wait a minute – Sweden doesn’t even have a lockdown. Doesn’t matter where he drove and when.
Here’s a photograph of the Swedish government … uh huh, here’s another name … and here’s a headline from something called Business Insider, which sounds familiar but I’m not going to check that it is what I think it is because it gives me the headline I need. Thanks, Business Insider.
Posted four hours ago. "Sweden touts the success of its controversial lockdown-free coronavirus strategy, but the country still has one of the highest mortality rates in the world."
Hm. Define success. Also caught a clip of a non-British chat show yesterday, shared from YouTube, subtitled, I guess European, in which they were laughing about the UK's government-adviser-gate shock-horror-scandal.
Maybe there are British people who demand the sacking of Swedish government advisers on a regular basis. Maybe it's a serial-petitioner thing.
Maybe there are Europeans for whom laughing at British politics in the acceptable face of ethnic humour.
I wonder. Actually, I don't. For me, the way ahead is clear.
Either I draw up a petition demanding that Sweden imposes a lockdown, or I go swimming.
I’ll give you a clue. “Get a life” is my motto for today.
When I get to my big exercise moment, I might take swimming trunks.
The water glitters in the sunshine. To judge from the trees, there’s hardly any wind.
Flurry of posts yesterday, inviting me to help various friends by signing petitions to demand the sacking of a government adviser. Looked into it further, and found that the BBC had done a timeline of where the man drove and when he drove there.
In-depth investigation is so easy when the news fits into a template. Was it Archibald Cox? No, Howard Baker who said, “What did the president know and when did he know it?” About Nixon. Watergate.
Today, the drive to Barnard’s Castle fits into the slot in the template formerly occupied by the 18.5-minute gap in the White House tape.
My friends raising petitions to demand the sacking, et cetera. Indignant. Outraged. I hesitate to use the term “usual suspects”, but yeah – those friends. They’ve been noisily bothered about everything since the 2016 referendum. Serial petitioners.
Two seagulls have made a nest on my roof. This is not good news – not for the roof – but I can’t quite bring myself to interrupt their honeymoon.
When the family’s grown up and gone – which will be September, I’m told – I shall take steps to prevent their return.
Or not. I don’t know. Let’s see how they react to my presence in their territory once their children are born. Let’s check the roof, come September.
There were people on the beaches at the weekend. We went to a more secluded beach that doesn’t get much tourist traffic. Swimming. Picnic. Social distance. Locals, but not many locals.
Some of my serial-petitioner friends aren’t even British.
If I wanted to get into serial-petitioning, and to do it properly, I would have to take an interest in the government advisers working for foreign leaders – such as, for example, oh, let's say ... yes, the Swedish prime minister.
Who turns out to be Stefan Löfven, leader of the Swedish Social Democratic Party – thanks, Google.
Further search – yeah, okay. A name. An adviser. But he left in 2019. And wait a minute – Sweden doesn’t even have a lockdown. Doesn’t matter where he drove and when.
Here’s a photograph of the Swedish government … uh huh, here’s another name … and here’s a headline from something called Business Insider, which sounds familiar but I’m not going to check that it is what I think it is because it gives me the headline I need. Thanks, Business Insider.
Posted four hours ago. "Sweden touts the success of its controversial lockdown-free coronavirus strategy, but the country still has one of the highest mortality rates in the world."
Hm. Define success. Also caught a clip of a non-British chat show yesterday, shared from YouTube, subtitled, I guess European, in which they were laughing about the UK's government-adviser-gate shock-horror-scandal.
Maybe there are British people who demand the sacking of Swedish government advisers on a regular basis. Maybe it's a serial-petitioner thing.
Maybe there are Europeans for whom laughing at British politics in the acceptable face of ethnic humour.
I wonder. Actually, I don't. For me, the way ahead is clear.
Either I draw up a petition demanding that Sweden imposes a lockdown, or I go swimming.
I’ll give you a clue. “Get a life” is my motto for today.
Dunno, but it wasn't there yesterday. Turns out to be The World, the largest privately owned yacht in the world (sic), appearing out of the morning mist. You can buy apartments in The World, and float around permanently.
Not that I’m in the mood for grand pronouncements about gender differences, but I was talking to a friend the other day about Relationships. Capital R.
Talking to a woman friend. Of a certain age. Which is roughly my age.
She missed being loved by somebody. She knew how it felt to love somebody, and – that too, but being loved was what she missed.
Not that she was going to do anything about it. Life was good. And men of our age – yeah, okay, stories were told and I came away with the impression that the bar for men of our age is set pretty low.
If I decided that I missed having a Relationship, and decided to do something about it – well, it seems that just turning up on time would beat most of the competition.
Turning up on time for dates that I had arranged with her in mind, not just to suit myself.
Occasional gifts – nothing expensive, mind; it’s the thought – and a reminder set in my phone for her birthday.
Don’t even have to remember the date. Just the reminder would be nice.
Knowing that I’d put it on my phone.
Going away. Romantic destinations. Spontaneity. Laughter.
Somebody to talk to.
Did I realise that if I got a haircut, lost the ponytail, I’d be really quite–
She stopped. We looked at each other.
We both burst out laughing.
What it is to be friends.
Talking to a woman friend. Of a certain age. Which is roughly my age.
She missed being loved by somebody. She knew how it felt to love somebody, and – that too, but being loved was what she missed.
Not that she was going to do anything about it. Life was good. And men of our age – yeah, okay, stories were told and I came away with the impression that the bar for men of our age is set pretty low.
If I decided that I missed having a Relationship, and decided to do something about it – well, it seems that just turning up on time would beat most of the competition.
Turning up on time for dates that I had arranged with her in mind, not just to suit myself.
Occasional gifts – nothing expensive, mind; it’s the thought – and a reminder set in my phone for her birthday.
Don’t even have to remember the date. Just the reminder would be nice.
Knowing that I’d put it on my phone.
Going away. Romantic destinations. Spontaneity. Laughter.
Somebody to talk to.
Did I realise that if I got a haircut, lost the ponytail, I’d be really quite–
She stopped. We looked at each other.
We both burst out laughing.
What it is to be friends.
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