February 2026 - 6 March 2022
Mollie Jenkinson's funeral at Thorncliffe Crematorium in Barrow: in her mid-90s, Mollie was an intelligent and curious woman and had lived through enormous social change. I saw a faded photo of her as a child with her siblings, all wearing wooden clogs. When I asked, Mollie said they were comfortable.
Despite living all her life at Whitbeck on a remote farm, Mollie was in touch with all that was going on. This redoubtable woman enjoyed excursions to London into her eighties: to sports and art events, also visiting her son who worked there. Many attended the funeral service and the female priest, who had known Mollie well, shared memories of her friend.
I paper-clip sections of Full Circle together, it'll encourage me to write the book.
There's hardly ever a north-easterly gale here: so annoying when there is because one has to run home along the Prom against the wind - normally it's helpfully shoving from behind. But icy gales are a reassuring return to trad Winter weather.
Six Nations! Resurrect my England rugby shirt and evict moths.
Jonathan has a stonking Cold: the virus has had a high local hit rate. Fortunately the Winter Olympics keep him entertained, and chilled. It's amazing what humans do to keep themselves amused betwixt cradle and grave. Young people somersault through blizzards down mountains, arbitrarily attached to a board. And as for being on a bob-sleigh ... Dear God. I might sleep under the bed tonight, clutching the carpet for reassurance. Jonathan watches the Olympics wistfully, but then he's done mad things like canyoning down rapids and ski-mountaineering.
Biblical floods in Rome: when rugby players hit the turf a tidal wave splashes the stands.
I'm lost, out on two Home Visits to putative cat-adopters near Kendal. Now, away from the main road in twilit gloom, there's no SatNav signal. Not sure the paper map in the boot will help either. Sweatily, I slowly turn the Jaguar on a narrow track between hedges near Brigsteer. A Mercedes shoots round the bend in a blaze of headlights and screeching brakes.
Wherever I stop a car - it could be atop Big Ben - someone will want to drive past or park. This man looks annoyed at having to wait. For a nasty moment my front wheels spin in the mud, then I'm round. The lane gradually widens until Murky can roar past. A man in a hat with ear-flaps waves to me to stop. He saw me drive the other way and now crosses his farmyard to direct me to the cottage I seek.
NHS dental appointment at Bare. I haven't been back since 2024 when a charming but inept young woman took hours to give me two small fillings, watched by a yawning trainee. I'm relieved to see a confident dentist instead; he not only laughs at my jokes but speedily inspects my fangs and concludes I don't need any treatment.
Charge e-bike battery. Very diffy: for a start I have four keys with which to secure my e-bike like Fort Knox - and this is just for genteel Lancaster town centre. I drop the unlocked heavy iron battery bar and narrowly miss my foot , pre-charging. Afterwards, the bar will only slot back in at an awkward angle and upending the bike in the hall doesn't help. Whoever designed the battery should be sentenced Sisyphus-like to drag it repeatedly up Helvellyn. Bar dents the hall floor twice more before it clicks in. No-one comes up from the basement flat to check if we've dropped off a ladder or the mortal coil.
High Court decides Palestine Action is not a terrorist group[I reckon Yvette Cooper is the terrorist.] Another nail in Labour's coffin. I hope the multitude of wrongly-arrested protesters sue the Police.
Valentine's Day is the 38th Anniversary of me proposing to Jonathan. He has been cautious about using the affirmative ever since. I book us in at the Parker's Arms fabulous restaurant as a treat; the food will make him feel better.
It's a beautiful day, sporting sunny icy weather and snow-covered hills. We drive home via The Courtyard Dairy to buy Jonathan the best cheese. Might purchase a nifty picture of Wallace and Gromit too that I've seen in the window of Bay Framing.
Good clickbait header: 'Is your Doorbell Spying on You?' No, just a bored intern in China. Despite pervasive social paranoia, people still welcome Alexa into their homes. Astonishing too, how journalists anthropomorphise formerly inanimate objects. A hurricane does not intentionally kill people: it isn't sentient! Nor is Prime Minister Cardboard.
Curling is just people cleaning ice, I wonder if the male Olympic players [for example] mop the kitchen floor as assiduously at home.
The Rev Jesse Jackson, civil rights leader, dies. Why can't cowardly war-mongering dictators drop dead instead?
Christine is very chuffed with her new hearing-aids. She's hearing the high register anew and reports pulling a tissue from the box is akin to a deafening crush of cellophane, as is using zips. But, get this, the brain soon sorts out these noises so they're experienced as normal.
Jay, a polymath, is pondering why our kitchen coffee-machine isn't percolating properly, phone in one hand. He suddenly says,' If someone was going to inject liquid into your backside to make it perk-'
'No.' I say to silence him; I want to enjoy my breakfast.
'But if they were, you wouldn't do it in a public toilet would you?'
By the time I realise the man's no longer talking about coffee, he's doom-scrolling in earnest. Trump, ugh. The cat enjoys my breakfast.
Andy Mount-All Windsor was arrested this morning and questioned for 22 hours while his two houses were searched. If they'd been smaller properties would he have been let out quicker? AMAW is only suspected of previous misconduct in public life this time, so that's all right then. Dallas, 1980s dramatic soap opera about the rich and famous, pales next to Randy Andy's doings. Now Charles is King, he's stuck with taking action against his own bro. You couldn't make it up!
Jo arrives for a visit featuring Six Nations on TV, hedonistic drinking and delicious food. England are useless! Jo and I consider burning our retro shirts at Twickenham but, trains South being what they are, I'll dye mine black in Morecambe instead. Obvs. more wine was necessary to drown our sorrow.
Elaborate funeral plans are for the young i.e under-60s. I'm donating my bag of bones and acid to startled worms in Dalton Woods. Do try and remember people, after I'm dead. In a cardboard coffin, tagged with graffiti by one or two peers with shaky hands, who drop me into the earth with relief. Btw, I've cancelled my original musical choice of Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud by Wallace, as it's bound to be raining. Instead I want bagpipes enthusiastically played, followed by peals of church bells.
Admiral has quoted £82 rise in home and one car insurance, so I do USwitch and get £96 off with Gen.Accident car insurance run by Aviva. Later USwitch sent me Sheila's Wheels' quote that is £18 cheaper. Too late, never mind.
Dentist 2pm, to screw implant in further and provide a mouthguard against my nocturnal teeth-grinding during Six Nations.
Jersey (the island) is due to join the Isle of Man in agreeing to medically-assisted dying. Wales is greatly in favour too. Cue for The Grim Reaper to go on strike.
A sensible female plumber who leads the Green Party in Denton and Gorton has won the bye-election from Labour with a huge majority, hurrah! That'll teach PM Cardboard to refuse to let Andy Burnham stand in case he won and posed a leadership challenge. Cardboard is in tatters now from causing the bye-bye election.
Photobooks are marvellous: my phone has skilfully atrophied my memory muscle so that I send off the photos it stores. If the electricity goes off zillions of people, not just geriatrics, will be vacantly stumbling along streets.
It's been raining for 48 hours; Nimbostratus will probably obscure our planned squint through a telescope at six planets neatly lined up in the night sky tomorrow.
Beautiful day, so I went for a five-mile Run which released the energy to try yet again to befriend the fostered-ferals on our top floor. Nope. The bite-proof gloves I bought online are useless - Jay demonstrated by sticking a fork through one of them. I wasn't wearing it.
The Iranian religious despot is assassinated by the US; pictures of Iranians either celebrating or mourning are televised. I expect the same would happen were positions to be reversed.
I heard Rogue Male with John Guilgood in the lead on R4Xtra during the night, a perk of insomnia. Really exciting! Because I missed the start and the hero was Lord Ben, I had to check whether Tony Ben was in Intelligence during WW2, but no. It turns out this story is famous, with a popular old film, book, etc. Now Ben - another one! - Cummerband is due to star in a remake of the film this year. Which is probably why Rogue Male was on the radio ... The media reminds me of Dali's painting Autumnal Cannibalism, for ever devouring itself.
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