A lockdown walk in the snow

 

Dog walking in the snow

We continue with patience through lockdown number 3, unable to see anyone from another household, unable to travel further than the village, and avoided in the street even by other dog walkers who take pains to walk on the other side of the road. I am supposed to be on a priority list for deliveries, but we have yet to find a slot with Sainsbury or Tesco. We rely on Ocado deliveries which Ann has managed to book each week. 

We do occasionally travel further afield though. We head ostensibly towards Waitrose in Sudbury waving a carrier bag with the purpose of essential shopping, then stop at Rodbridge park on the way for a good stretch and to let the dogs run free. Byron has become increasingly reluctant to travel in the car and has taken to hiding in a corner when I take them out. Today he wouldn't even come to Ann's call, so he ended up alone at home as we drove out into the blizzard with Bronte.

Today we were hit by the new blizzard from the east; there was a thin sprinkling of snow, but we left in a quiet gap. However it came on again as I walked forcing us to return home and abandon even the pretence of Waitrose. It is heavy now and quite thick outside. 

Unable to go to the theatre or cinema or even a pub for a drink, we were in search of something new to watch when I read a recommendation for a BBC series, Industry. The premise is a group of young graduates competing for a position with a prestigious Investment bank. They are each interesting characters, and the story promised to be an insightful view of a world we never see, yet so often read about. In the event, it is practically unwatchable.  It turned into a prime porno series before we ever found out about the characters or learnt about the inner workings of the city. Many years ago, in the days of video rentals, Ann and I got a copy of a film called Tie Me Up Tie Me Down. The was rated as an X porno film, but was like a tame walk in the park compared to Industry. I have never seen so much naked flesh since I worked on the gynae ward. It added nothing to any of the characters, and served to hold up rather than develop whatever story lurked beneath the lurid surface. This seems to be the way modern TV is moving. Even Jeremy Clarkson in his column in the Sunday Times berated the extreme content of so much contemporary television. It is small wonder that 750,000 older people are refusing to pay the BBC Television licence fee. They are desperately chasing the younger viewers and making themselves irrelevant to the rest of their audience.

The Absinthe Drinker, after Picasso

I continue with painting, now trying new approaches. To encourage my art, Ann treated me to a set of black canvases and my most recent work is a version of Picasso's The Absinthe Drinker. I will not comment on its quality, but it is a pointer of the new directions that open if one is willing to try something new.