Shut up and eat your damned quesadilla Napoleon

Not bad for an enforced work from home office view early doors. Soon wears off though as the day begins to drag. If I'm not driving by next Wednesday afternoon I will be in a bit of a bate.

Probably a bit niche but came across the end of Napoleon Dynamite last night. Not one for anyone who had a notion that they and their adolescence was cool but a real delight for those of us who weren't and didn't and it wasn't. Well, not until punk came along and smacked every other fecker right out of the park.

And in other news, leave the onion skins on when making a stock from the Sunday chicken carcass. It's the law.

How do you like your eggs in the morning? A pulling line I believe. I do like 'em scrambled as long as not from the microwave. Yes, that's right, some people confess to making scrambled eggs in the microwave. But then that Dalek John Redwood has just bemoaned the lack of British fruit and vegetables in some shops at the moment. What with it being winter and everything.

I prefer my scrambled eggs on the toast but can't cut the toast (or the mustard) with my weak and withered left hand languishing in it's cast. Maldon sea salt, orange juice with bits and decent coffee essential accompaniments. Now, have I taken my Lansoprazole?

Today has been grim and cold with a persistent frost all day. Frost enough to make walking in what has been a quagmire quite easy going. Not a lot to see though.

What's Up

Despite the drop in the R rate we're not really going anywhere for a while are we? So I got me some reading in.

I'm a sucker for anything Essex, all those liminal spaces, 350 miles of coastline and everything from the  BATA factory, anarchist colonies to Crittalls Windows and all that's in between clichés. As Gillian Darley has it, England's most misunderstood county. I prefer her Excellent tag. I'll be counting the clichés with the Prodigal but a quick skim has me thinking she may have coined some more.

I'm not sure there's any Essex  by Rob Barnes in A Fine Line but there's plenty of the next best things from Suffolk and Norfolk and I am so taken with his unmistakeable style. So bright, bold and direct, and the prospect of an oystercatcher at any time. Which, like most of Essex is never a bad thing. Excellent indeed.

Catch Cult is one of those rare things these days, an angling magazine that's worthy of picking up. Along with Fallon's Angler, though there's probably not too much crossover readership. Both are about 20 editions in, and have yet to become stale, which I'm sure all involved in are pleased to hear, respected critic that I am...... everything is hard these days unless you are a Tory donor or a spouse of a a Tory getting minted with billions of pounds of public money so all hail these two  brave ventures.

Snow

 

Snowed yesterday. Little Un's loved it. Us Old Un's not quite so much.

Nearly all gone now.

Up close

The fecked wrist has meant carting a DSLR around on my limited ramblings is les than convenient so the basic camera phone is getting more of an outing, and it's probably better as a macro . 

This rose is in flower all year it seems out on the boundary of the vast sprawling Bureboy Estate. Not heavily fragranced and needs reining in a bit but lovely none the less. Which reminds me that I have a double row of wallflowers to plant out still, they are always heavily scented.

We've had a few frosts and a tiny sprinkling of snow over the last week or so and it feels colder in than out most days. 

Seven mile Boris

Well, Bozza's 14 mile round trip for a bike round Stratford Park on Sunday, passing many nearer open spaces, probably involving many cars and goons has set an acceptable local limit for many, and reinforced by Hat Mancock and then the Briefing tonight when it was said it was not practical to set an absolute definition of what local is. 

I was well within that for my Sunday stomp, probably ambling 6 or 7 miles in total along the Weavers Way laid on the old M&GN line towards Aylsham. Pleasant walking now its be resurfaced. I'm fascinated by part human, part animal old ways that traverse land and bisect other paths and roads. If my book case hadn't fallen down whilst I was being back slabbed in Minor Injuries I'd dig out MacFarlane's tome on the subject.

Sparrow hawk plucking zone. 

Being on a rail bed its mostly cuttings and embankments with views off to places you'd not normally see by car, or only momentarily. Bit busy what with all of us keeping localish and I must say I'm not sure about the Covid secure status of joggers and runners chuffing out plumes of breath and not thinking to slow or even stop and turn their heads as seems to the new normal for walkers. Or going into Costa to get a cup of mud for your walk with chum. 

 

Local

Despite all the confusion about what is and isn't local, in law or in spirit my horizons are limited about as far I can drag myself away from Bureboy Villas on foot as the Commander in Chief is hunkered down for the duration. For now anyway. So output might get bit samey as there is nothing that scenic or spectacular in this light industrial market town with zero architectural splendour or boujie artisanal outlets or quirky streets with crooked cottages.

A sunset is always worth a punt and I'm sure we'll get to see a few variations on this scene as it opens out just two minutes walk up the road. I'm not brave enough to suggest to the Commander in Chief that I leave her with Little Uns to seek out panoramic sunrises before breakfast, especially with the hell of home schooling visited on her and the Prodigal for the foreseeable future.

For those with a log pile fetish this boundary marker might get the pulse racing. I'm guessing at least part of it fell from a great height on the original fence, and the occupiers thought they'd open up their vista to take in the view across the fields and the sunset which has in part bathed the pile in an ethereal light.

Goodbye to all that

Seems those lovely dace from the end of last year will be the last  fish I catch for a while. Or anyone else will for that matter as we are all plunged into Tier 5. The scruffy old bugger managed to sneak in a snide schools are safe in his 5PM mumble fest today.   As Witty threw BoJo's underlings under the political decision for Ministers bus. 

Anyhoo, I  never did open that Japanese whisky tasting set so got a few pleasant evenings to look forward to. Just as well as I have 28 long days with an uncomfortable cast to go before the fracture clinic and what I hope will be good news.