3.30pm. The sun is low in the sky. It’s stopped raining at last and we’re on our bikes. The Wild is full of hazards: wet leaves to slip on; branches strewn across our path; the threat of sunset. And yet it’s beautiful, this November day. The leaves that still cling to the trees are green, yellow and red. We hurtle down the hill on a carpet of yellow.
As we turn the corner towards the mill, a horse trots over to say hello. At the mill, the ducks are resting on the wet grass.
“Look, the river’s right up to the top of the bank,” Dad says, pointing.
There’s been a lot of rain in the last few days: some of it inside the parental home. The new leak is in the ceiling just above Dad’s chair.
“Don’t put that in the blog,” Dad says.
“Why not?” I say. Am huddled under my blanket on the sofa. Mum is next to me, doing The Times crossword.
“It’s not interesting,” Dad says. “Can you smell damp, Tanya?”
“Don’t ask her that,” Mum says. “She’ll put it in the blog.”
“No, I can’t,” I say.
“Good: it must’ve dried out then,” Dad says.
“But I haven’t got very good nasal powers,” I say.
Had better get dressed, people will be here for dinner soon.
The attached photo is Mum’s Christmas cactus.
Happy Saturday everyone!
*1944. By Rex Stout. A Nero Wolfe mystery.