In which FP rambles on, and ponders the world
In which we go to Glastonbury
Talking of summer storms: we popped down to Glastonbury the other month, for a poke around the bookshops, and for a walk up to the top of Glastonbury Tor. As we did so, the heavens opened, and we, and all the other tourists making the climb, got soaked.
We watched the storm motoring its way off across the Somerset Levels, away to soak the distant hills.
In which we go to Cornwall
Bude, in North Cornwall, back in May. A study in clouds and sea-spray.
In which we’re blown about
The world turns, things change, and another week is over.
Wee Dave seems to be settling in well at the office. We seem to agree on a frightening number of things, many more than I did with Big Dave. The office still hasn’t been blown to bits by the wind, although it came fairly close. The office toilets are jammed up in the attic, spread out across creaking roof-beams, and sitting up there in a heavy gale sounds, I imagine, like riding in a hard-pushed galleon sailing across the Atlantic.
The storm seems to have been blowing everyone’s heads about, upsetting people, breaking things up, putting people on edge. I blame it for all that fraught Big Brother stuff that I’m steadfastly refusing to watch.
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