However, the worst thing to befall us so far has been the loss of the internet for much of the weekend, which really wasn't too bad. So I found other diversions. I strained the sloe gin while listening to The Archers Omnibus on the radio, and got cross with myself for getting maudlin during Phil Archer's funeral. I blame the mother's milk with which I took The Archers in.
I also finished the slipper socks.
I always liked that sweater, with its other-side-of-sunset colours.
It was only quite a cheap one, and not very well-made, so when it went into holes I put it through the washing machine on a hot cycle so it went felty, and kept it about seven years, the prescribed time after which my mother always said one would find a use for anything, before making it into slippers, indulging at the same time my weakness for pompoms.
Molly is now equipped for wet weather. Anyone who tells you a cocker spaniel's coat is water resistant has never kept one. Molly's is more like black cotton wool, and once wet, you have a fidgetty, chilly and uncomfortable dog for hours who will do everything she can to rub off the offending moisture onto you. I resisted for a long time as I thought dog-coats were for wimps and Yorkies, but now I have given in.
I reckoned this fleece lined waterproof in French navy was suitably sober and rugged enough. The blur at the far end is a rapidly wagging tail. Paws and head still get wet, but back and sides stay drier.
She can't see a camera without barking.
Finally I've come up with some possible responses to 'What's in the Box?', over at 'Questions'. I sometimes think the stuff that comes out in these poems from me is a mite gloomy, bleak and fey, compared to the cheerful and ironic demeanor I generally try to maintain here, along with the pompoms. It has to come out somewhere, perhaps; thanks to those who stay with it.