Our foxgloves yesterday morning, in the aftermath of the previous evening's rainstorm. Look at all that moisture! Some of our plants got a bit knocked around by the wind, and I had to stake some of them up, but overall the garden is much happier.
I summoned up my courage and went to the Royal Free Hospital for my medical appointments on Friday. You may remember that I'd put them off because they were fairly routine and I was nervous about stepping into the coronavirus-ridden maw of our health care system. But I decided to just go ahead and get them done, and indeed, everything went fine. (As far as I know -- ask again in a week or two, when the incubation period is over!)
I was surprised that even in the hospital, many people -- both patients and clerical and support workers -- weren't masked. As I've mentioned before, this country takes a fairly low-key approach to masking. We've never been publicly advised to wear one (other than on public transport, where they're now required) and although I do see them on the streets, most people forgo them. I must admit I have still never worn one myself. I am diligent about hand-washing and keeping my distance, though.
Anyway, thank goodness those tests are done. I have one more to do at my doctor's office.
I took Olga to the cemetery yesterday afternoon, where I sat for a while and called our friend Chris, who complained about the tedium of this lockdown. (Chris is over 70 and not in the greatest of health, so he's pretty much staying home. I told him he needs a hobby!) While sitting on a bench where I don't usually sit, I happened to notice this headstone with a peace sign on it. How groovy! The woman buried there, Peggy Duff, who died in 1981 at age 71, was a well known activist who "inspired and organized so many in the struggle against injustice, oppression and war," according to the headstone. If she were still with us (and of a younger generation) she'd be out on the streets now, wouldn't she? It really is an endless struggle.
I also heard the turaco calling from one of the trees, but try as I might I could not see that darned bird.
I'm reading a book called "Swallows and Amazons." Have any of you heard of it? I hadn't before my library job -- I don't think kids in the states read it much -- but in the UK it's considered a classic. It's from 1930, about four kids who sail and camp out on an island in the Lake District. I must admit I am finding it tedious. There's a lot of talk about masts and halyards and keels and whatnot. I think its appeal to children may be rooted in the fact that the kids are on their own, having an adventure with no adults around, but I wonder how many parents would allow their children (as young as seven) to be out on a lake for days at a time with no supervision.
Dave and I recently watched an Amazon movie called "The Vast of Night," about UFOs visiting a small New Mexico town in the 1950s. Clearly inspired by Roswell, it was really enjoyable. It made me think about Betty and Barney Hill -- do you remember them? When I was a kid, the Hills were famous for their assertions that they were abducted and experimented upon by aliens. I remember hearing about them and being a bit freaked out about whether something was going to descend from the sky and take me away. (They also made an impression because, of course, they have the same first names as the Rubbles.) Apparently a TV movie was made about them in the mid-'70s, which is probably why they were on my radar at that time. People in the '70s loved their UFO stories!