Now I do not usually wake at 6:30 am but on Saturday morning there was a bright light and the sound of a hundred people bashing metal pans together, then electricity went off and came on again (the clock by the bed reset to 12:00) and we were awake. Then it hailed, wind blasted the house and further thunder and lightning trundled around us.
Noah art thou out there? The waters are rising - at least in the south of the country with devastating flooding and the world weather is a mess.
Anyway we tried to slumber another half an hour but, in the end, R got up and made a cup of tea which we drank in bed, reading books and waiting for the heating to come on.
And all is snowdrops and raindrops and ice drops and even pear drops which my son R brought the other day.
Sunday - As the weather was awful on Saturday there was not much to write about.
As I breakfast there is a cacophony of bird chatter outside the kitchen door. House sparrows have taken up roosting rights in a low bush on the banking. Their droppings litter the soil beneath.
Today the artist Fiona Clucas has come. R has bought me a painting, not yet done, for Christmas and I have muttered about having one of the garden. So she has come to look. I hope she is good at painting rain - no, I know she is a wonderful artist and the perfect person to paint for me. (When she reads this she will regret agreeing to do the commission.)
Here is yet another photo of snowdrops - this time under the top hedge. The hedge was supposed to be of various hollies but they have grown so slowly Rosa rugosa has been added and overtaken the holly.
There is no doubt that the leaf/flower buds are breaking on the flowering currant. If I rub one between my fingers the familiar smell of cat pee/currant is very strong but, funnily, not unpleasant.
So the grey wet days continue, the grey man wields his wheelbarrow, moves his manure and mulches his . . . well, you get the idea.
Given the opportunity I shall dash out and do bits between the heavy showers.
As it is Sunday it has got me wondering what to do with the Rambling Rector (a rose) by the old well. It has become too big for its location and too big to move. Perhaps I should just let it explode everywhere and trim it if it becomes a nuisance. This then reminds me I should soon prune the other roses. Normally this would be done in March but with the weather as it is we are already in March. This applies only if the jet stream persists in whizzing across the Atlantic as it has done for the last couple of months.
One would think, with all of modern science - we can pop out to a comet a hundred million miles away - there should be some way to nudge the jet stream into a more amenable strength and direction?
So to conclude laterally, surely the title Global Warming is wrong, I much prefer the suggested alternative of Global Weirding.
Thus, if someone is pumping out masses of polluting gases (not referring to cattle) should they be called a Weirdo?