A cold clear bright day. Clare was out for her daily walk this morning while I stayed in bed, listening to the news and dozing, as I do habitually before getting up for breakfast.
Today's news centres on the impact of school closures on children and families under new restrictions announced yesterday. Less prominent in the headlines are changes being implemented as a result of brexit. Lorry delays get publicised, but less so expats not allowed to return to their homes abroad because they haven't got documents updating their status as non-EU citizens.
Some mail order companies in the EU, and other importers are stopping trade with the UK because they're obliged to register for UK VAT - time and money consuming procedures leading to the conclusion it's not worth bothering to trade with Britain. Announcements on line to this effect have attracted nasty comments from sleepwalking brexiteers, waking up to the reality of what they've been shouting for and blaming all others but themselves. We starting to pay the price paid for the fantasy of complete sovereign autonomy, and it well get worse as more unforeseen consequences emerge. As ever, poorer people will suffer most.
This morning I prepared the order of service for Thursday's funeral and accepted to do another one in two weeks time. Elderly covid patient deaths. Canton ward still has the second highest number of infections. A high proportion of elderly people in the population, several care homes, but also an area with a significant number of BAME households, and a densely populated area. So it's only to be expected, I guess.
When I went out for my walk around the Fields, neighbourhood pavements were strewn with discarded Christmas trees awaiting collection by the Council, a reminder that already it's Twelfth night. Clare stripped our little tree this morning, ready to go back into the garden, as it has live roots. I felt sad not to have a last burn of the candle stubs this evening before dismantling, but never mind. How quickly the festive season has slipped behind the cloud of covid angst.
Nevertheless started by visiting the local greengrocer to see if he'd yet taken his delivery of this year's organic Seville oranges. Last time I called before Christmas, he though the consignment had been held up at the Channel crossing. I had to queue in the cold on the pavement for five minutes to enter but endurance was rewarded by the sight of a large box of naranjas sevillanas, by the counter. I bought three kilos worth for just under six quid, took them home, and left them for Clare, who was still having a siesta. When I got back the exquisite aroma of bitter oranges cooking greeted me and transported me to Andalusia despite lockdown. A wonderful Epiphany gift.
On the tree lined avenue through the park, I spotted the first daffodil shoots with buds about to burst and the first snowdrops fully formed and ready to open. That's five days earlier than when I noticed the earliest new year winter flowerings I'd ever seen five years ago, and posted them on Instagram, not long after I opened my account.
This evening, I caught up with another episode of the latest German crimmie in the oddly English titled in the Channel Four Walter Presents 'Nordic Murders', when it's set on the North German Baltic coast. The German heading for the series mentions the Nordsee Usedom archipelago as the story line setting. Not so difficult for foreigners, unless you're not so keen to advertise your location to movie buffs! Seven hours away by ferry is the town of Ystad, the setting for the Wallander stories, is now much visited by movie tourists. There's a price to be paid for becoming a real-life film-set, and it's not paid by the producers but by the locals. The well acted series continues to retain interest, containing a strong element of family and community relationships, sensitively portrayed, reaching back over decades. I have another episode in reserve, for the next uninteresting evening of telly viewing.
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