I’m a day late here and it’s all down to thunderstorms and Michael Jackson, both of them forces of nature that I don’t understand but which I find fascinating.
Yesterday (Thursday 25th) was the day we packed the car with Graham’s working clothes and comfort goodies and schlepped them and ourselves over to Somerset. The drive was done in about three hours, including the time to stop for a breakfast break at Magor, and a caffeine boost at Gordano. No incidents.
And then, there we were, in bright Somerset sunshine, on the cliff-top, sitting in a slightly tatty and elderly caravan which was filled, rapidly, with Graham’s stuff while I power-napped after a sandwich lunch.
The plan had been for me to stay overnight and return early this morning but when I found myself all full of energy and general bounciness after my nap it seemed best to take advantage of it and get myself back home into the welcoming paws of Dolly the Mega-cat.
Just as I reached Bridgwater the sky blackened over and I was treated to a majestic display of thunder and lighting and drenching, torrential rain. As I passed the entrance to our last home in Bridgwater I cast a glance over, to see it three inches deep in flash flood. I hope it got no worse than that.
I keep on keeping on, however, driving through the rain and on over the bridge into Wales, where the sun came out to greet me.
Stopped off at the chippie just before turning in to our little road, and then up on to the drive by our little house among the pines.
Dolly was pleased to see me and Graham was much relieved to hear that I was home safe and sound. It seems that Somerset was awash but he was out of harm’s way and had experience nothing more dramatic than one wide-eyed girl from the bar who would never admit it but was actually seeking comfort in the storm.
A fish supper–at about eight–and I was ready for a prolonged sleep. Graham called me to say goodnight at about 01:00, and I woke dry as a bone at 03:30 to sip a hot drink and discover the Internet and the news channels reeling under the weight of the announcement of Michael Jackson’s death. That was sad.
I soon found my eyelids drooping, though, and toddled back to bed, to wake at 09:00 or thereabouts when Graham called to say good morning. Dolly came gallumphing along when she heard the phone, demanding to say hello and to be told telephonically that she’s a good girl. A very good girl.
And so, the summer starts here. At some point I shall pop Dolly into her carrier, her carrier into the car, and we shall hop on over to Somerset to spend a holiday with himself. And there may be one or two other similar visits. Or, alternatively, I may decide I don’t much enjoy it here ‘alone’ and then Dolly and I shall go stay with Graham for the rest of the season.
Such fun.
I’ve found myself to be cheerful and positive about it all, except for the sad news, and there’s no cause to be concerned for me.
And now, early evening, a glass of wine and an episode or two of The Tudors. Can’t complain about that.
