Hollyhocks on Bowbridge Lane

The hairdresser arrived at 9am. I seem to have had a very radical cut. This will be handy if we have another lockdown, as it won't need cutting again any time soon. Never mind, I have a hat, and Bomble has a new fan club member, Cheryl the hairdresser.

I cleaned up the hair, hoovered, hung out the washing which meant hacking a new path down the garden, packed up my stuff for the market (much quicker with my new system) and then sprinted down to the Slad valley to collect the buggy and then the two boys.

We went to the park. Afterwards, we went to their home. We did not go to the post office or the Co-op because the arguments are very wearing ( you know, the "Mummy says I can have whatever I like" line, followed by tears or shouting) but went straight home, with a promise of a treat for lunch. I wish junk food snacks had never been invented!

The afternoon was fun, mostly. Afterwards, I sprinted home, took in the washing from the line, had an ice cream (junk food!) and a cup of tea, then helped to load the car for the market. Having had the windscreen replaced recently, we then had to replace a dead battery almost immediately. This was followed by the realisation that the MOT was due! Steve's taking it in tomorrow.

Set up my stall. This took me ages! So many new boxes. It threw me. However, as of next time, I'll have a smaller stall so it'll all change again. We'll have more traders back in the hall, too.

Walked home. Finished listening to "The Agatha Christie Completists" episode of the Shedunnit podcast. Ironically, this episode had taken me many sessions to complete listening. Cooked supper. Checked my phone messages. Heard that the beat generation poet Michael Horovitz had died. For years he lived near Stroud, and is the father of Adam Horovitz, one of Stroud's finest poets, and was married to Frances Horovitz, the poet, who died young in 1983. Michael was the one who organised The Wholly Communion event at the Albert Hall in 1965. He was always good at bringing people together. I recall him as a sinewy man in a string vest, playing a kazoo on an outdoor pub table while poets performed inside. Such enthusiasm for life! That would have been 25 years ago, and he seemed old to me then. I realise now, after reading his obituary, that he was 61 at the time.

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/obituaries/2021/07/08/michael-horovitz-performance-poet-1960s-beat-tradition-renowned/