An Old Bull in Winter

Well things have happened. My granddad died last Thursday and although I am sad that I did not know him better (the visits were too seldom and he was not a talkative man) I think he died as one should, having had all his children with him in the last few days, and not alone when the end finally came.

Spent a lovely weekend with Choc Chip on lake Windermere living out my National Trust fantasy in a beautiful cottage on the lake shore. We tried to cripple outselves on a walk that I wrongly guestimated at around 8 miles, but turned into about 15 by the time we dragged out sorry arses home. Visited a couple of NT properties - one a lovely dark yeoman's house hidden in the hills above the lake, another a gloopy brown square of 17th/20th century uber-richness, manned by about 100 pensioner stewards determined to make sure that you visited every fucking corner in the exact order they demanded. It houses one of the best art collections in the UK but I like to browse these things in the order I wish to, and at whatever pace I wish to, and got a little annoyed by the sheep herding. I personally think they were suspicious of me and Choc Chip because we're under the age of 80 and don't wear tweed.

Now have had to face work which has made me feel leaden with apathy. The upcoming funeral and general slog of the next few months on the personal front have imbued me with mindless pity. The fact that an attempt at delapidation (which I have done many times before without ill effect) has left me with the face of an adolescent glue sniffer has in no way improved my mood. BAAAAA.