Fit For Nothing But Denis Wheatley

My mother didn't want to get up yesterday- and had told the carer she hated her, so I swanned in and told her it was breakfast time and her grandson was coming to visit.

"My grandfather?" she exclaimed in horrified tones....

We've been fairly obedient in our observance of the covid regulations so this was the first time we'd seen Mike and Su since whenever it was such get-togethers were last permitted. It was good to see them- and good to know it's not longer illegal to act naturally around people one loves.

The high winds of the last few days have brought down a number of branches- but no whole trees- and I can probably deal with the wreckage without having to summon Matthew with his chainsaws. The fields are filling up with thistles- and we need the donkeys to come back and eat them.

Do donkeys really eat thistles- or is that just Eeyore in the Pooh books?

A neighbour is shooting something. flying plates, probably. Pop, pop, pop...

I felt too weary to cope with anything substantial last night so I started reading one of Ailz's Denis Wheatleys. Wheatley is a lousy writer and lousy writing is tedious, but he keeps things moving along and his strongest suit is that he'd done his research- and deals with the occult with the authority of someone who'd actually sat down and chatted with Aleister Crowley and Montague Summers and other such canaille...