I woke this morning, after a slightly disturbed night (the Sage was restless and kept rolling over, taking the bedclothes with him), to the sound of a bird in the chimney. I lay dozily listening for a while. Not a pigeon, nor a little bird. A dove at a pinch, otherwise blackbird or starling size. At last, I got up, drew the curtains on one side of the room, one curtain on the other and opened the window, and then realised that the sound didn't come from the chimney at all, but from the attic.
I don't ever go in that attic. I think my wedding dress is in there, but it's housed many generations of mice by now I expect. There is, I know a copy of The Swimming Pool Library by Alan Hollingsworth which, at the time of printing, was a book I didn't care for my then very young children to read so I was obliged to hide it, and it's never emerged.
But I moved the box of Christmas decorations from the third step and climbed the stairs. At the top, a starling was flapping desperately at the glass and didn't fly away at my approach. I grabbed, caught one wing and was thoroughly pecked after three despairing squawks, before the bird resigned itself to imminent destruction. Carefully carrying it, I held it at the window and it successfully flew away.
Once I was dressed, I spent the morning typing (and reading a few blogs, hem, hem)and then made a few phone calls. The Sage came home. "I had to shelter in Al's shop for a while" he said. "A real April shower." I had been planning to bike into town, maybe the weather was too unsettled? He changed tune at once. "Oh, no, it's cleared up, look, there's more blue sky than grey." I mentioned that the thing about April showers is that they can come almost out of a blue sky...no, I'd be fine, he told me.
Yes, I cyled in, and cold it was. A nasty North wind blowing at my left side. On the way home, it rained, too, making my back right teeth ache.
I bought barracuda from the fishmonger on Thursday, as well as some lovely raw prawns from which I made a divine risotto with fennel. I've never cooked or eaten barracuda, but decided it was probably quite robust, so made a base of onion, celery, carrot, red wine and tomato, browned the fish and then cooked it in the sauce. It was good and, indeed, robust.
Several things ticked off my list, although one of the phone calls turned out to be an answerphone message. Can't bother her on a Sunday, so I must remember next week. Yes, I know that Sunday is the first day of the week, but one doesn't treat it as such so I'm counting Monday as the start of the week.
That reminds me. I don't know whether I'm in school on Monday or Friday. Excuse me, I need to send an email.
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I understand that the government passed an act, several years ago, making Monday legally the first day of the week. Most diaries now follow that plan.
So much for a Judeo-Christian heritage.
You'd think that our government would have more important things to do with its time.
In the Bible, right, in Genesis, I thought it said that God made the world in the first 6 days, you know, light, and water, and creatures and everything. And on the SEVENTH day, He rested. That makes Sunday the last day of the week, and Monday the first. Or have I got that wrong?
Is Sunday counted as the first day of week because Jesus was resurrected on Sunday? I think that's why our sabbath is on Sunday, rather than the Jewish one on Saturday.
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