Mr Bluebird's On My Shoulder

The latest storm is called Eleanor. She's loud. She's given Ailz a headache.

Ailz draws my attention to a news item about the RSPCA being called out to deal with a swan which had taken up residence on a puddle in the middle of a road in Poynton.

Plenty of puddles here too. The path that the horses take to access their water butts is a quagmire.

My mother hasn't left her bed this year- except to go to the bathroom. I rather insist she takes that short walk from room to room because if she doesn't use her legs she'll lose  them. She has a bad chest but mainly I think the problem i's weariness- world-weariness. She's not eating much. I stand over her and nudge her when she falls asleep between sips of tea and have started spoon feeding her because it's easier and faster and less aggravating. Oddly enough she's more lucid and less deaf than she's been for ages. We actually have conversations.

Ailz and I have been breaking into song a lot. It's how we keep cheerful. She just sang a whole chorus of Zippety-doo-dah.