How strangely difficult it was to get Blip to accept that little word as a header - instead, it suggested all the titles I've ever used that began with "in" and wouldn't give up till I hit 'return'. But I spend so few days just ... in, and I wanted to reflect just that.
It was a foul day here: non-stop rain, battering the back of the house for a change and flooding the flower-bed yet again. The ferries came and went on a heaving grey sea, but I only watched from my window. Mr PB spent almost the entire day in the loft, moving stuff around and trying to throw some of it out altogether, while I tried to spot where I might fit in some more books downstairs. How, I wonder, do my fellow-blippers feel about concealing things - the stuff you can't think you'll ever need but don't actually think you can chuck in the bin - on top of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom?
But actually I didn't spend much time on this. I had a lovely long, chance FaceTime call with my oldest grandchild whom I caught at her breakfast; I propped her up beside the kitchen sink, as it were, and we blethered away while I washed the dishes and tidied up. Then I had two longish phone-calls from friends, and coffee - and then settled down to find the poems for the next poetry workshop, the last one of the series. I'm always appalled at the lack of care with which some sites reproduce poems; when they're ones I know I can spot the misalignment of lines, or the places where they've simply written the wrong word down and it annoys me enormously. I was, however, delighted to learn that there have been contributions to the church's Just Giving page from satisfied customers - and even more delighted by the kind comments they left.
And the blip? Well a day such as this leaves little to photograph; it's not as if I create anything photogenic or do crafty things which look jolly. So I'm blipping my dining-room as I see it when I'm sitting at the table. I've previously blipped the wall that's at right angles to this one, but this wall has recently had a new addition, with the necessary adjustments to accommodate it. The new painting is a print of a new work by my friend Paddy Allen, whose art adorns my poetry collection; the white-framed delicate study of a red deer among the trees and mosses of the nearby Bishop's Glen was a Christmas present from my bestie that I knew would have to be at a level where I could truly see it. Above it is a piece that our #2 son brought us during his Erasmus year in Rouen, created by someone he knew; all I can tell you is that Nutella was used to create the background colour on which the pen drawing is made. There is another original Paddy Allen study of a blossom twig, a print of Windows on the West, and a collection of small items from as far apart as Kizhi Island on Lake Ladoga, in Russia and Arran from the north-east. Every picture means something to me, and every change is carefully considered.
And now it's bedtime. I simply must get out for a walk tomorrow. All I did today was a collection of exercises prescribed by my Pilates teacher, involving waving my legs in the air and using every abdominal muscle I ever knew I had. One thing struck me as noteworthy as I did the cycling one. My right knee creaked.