Earlies

More fabulous weather. And then it ended.
But my dark mood wasn’t weather related. Noooo! Some varmint has been in snuffling and rootling amongst my earlies. I’ve no idea what.
Later, I popped up a photo of my Great-auntie Hannah to the Gatehouse Facebook page to mark the passing of my mum’s cousin Audrey who we last visited in November 2017. The last of the Crosbies living there, and there used to be so many - and I was delighted to get loads of comments and reminiscences and even an email from some woman currently doing a Crosbie family tree for the Gatehouse-Folk website. Living people are so much more dull.
So then, the big one - the boatie club council meeting - Gordon Bennett; herding cats. Fraidy cats too. I mean, the new Aussie guy can get a key to the outboard shed, but he can’t use it. It’s out of bounds! Covid danger. As K texted me, It's opened less often than Tutankhamun's crypt. But worse was to follow - the pontoons are out of bounds, as you can’t socially distance on them. The effin Royal Forth have been using them this past week; presumably they’re all now croaking. Eventually a deal is hammered out for those of us who want to go ahead with lift in. Much unhappiness from those who feel they’re subsidising those of us going in: there’ll be a second wave, we’ll be in lockdown again, next winter it’ll be back and the harbour will be out of bounds. You know, they really hope the worst happens so they can bask in righteousness and the validation of their own grim pronouncements. Someone call the fun police.