A heroic sacrifice

An overcast day, though the clouds were higher with a few glimpses of blue sky, and a welcome respite from rain. I spent the morning, writing three short talks for Basma introducing the sacraments. 

Just before noon the scaffolding lorry arrived, followed by a van with a small work team. Dismantling and uploading the equipment took under two hours. It's good to regain an unimpeded view of the street and back garden. Several people called to collect new back lane gate keys from Clare, prompted maybe by the sight of scaffolding being taken down. The coded lock has stayed in place while the roofers have needed access. The new padlock can now be used instead.

Clare cooked fillets of monkfish in a savoury sauce to go with veggies for our lunch. Afterwards I went out and walked for two hours before sunset.

The death of Russian anti-corruption activist and Putin adversary Alexei Navalny in an Arctic Circle gulag where he was imprisoned was reported this afternoon. Two days ago, he was seen in a court hearing and was in good health. His death was sudden and unexplained, but world leaders are pointing the finger at Putin and his gang, as Navalny's poisioning with Novichok nerve agent a few years ago was attributed to a secret agent of state. The world waits to see if there will be an autopsy, and whether his body will be disposed of where he dies, as he's regarded as an enemy of the state, or returned to his family. 

Navalny's choice to return to Russia after recovering from his earlier poisoning rather than seek asylum was a choice he made, to continue any way he could, confronting Putin whom Navalny believed is destroying Russia. Like a soldier, he chose to risk his life to defend his beloved country with the force of truth rather than armed might. His death was tragically inevitable. It remains to be seen what impact his self sacrifice will have on Russian people when they go to vote for a new president.

After supper, I read my Spanish novel through the rest of the evening until bed time. I'm enjoying reading for a change, instead of watching programmes on telly or Chromebook. It's taken my imagination to Paris and the life of a Peruvian ex-pat there in the revolutionary sixties so far. When we were in Geneva, I made an effort to learn and use everyday French, and could read newspapers and occasionally a French novel, but literary language was more of a challenge than a pleasure. Thirty years later, that experience seems to have made it easier to read in Spanish, as the grammar and sentence constructions are familiar. Spanish is as rich as English in vocabulary, and I need Google Translate for some new words, but others I can guess from context, helping to make reading more fluent. This makes humour in the story more accessible too. It give me a pleasure I didn't think I'd enjoy in old age.