Computer problems and sociable walks.

Death in a cold apartment

I wonder if she died in her sleep

or if she lay knowing end was nigh

and thought of past regrets

wishing someone was near

to hear her last confession

or wipe away her tear

at being wrenched from all she knew

and from everything she held most dear

Annie Elliott

 Further to my earlier blog about Edwin witnessing the police breaking down the door of the apartment opposite theirs, to recover the body of a woman who died alone (see An Eventful Time in Lockdown), Ann was moved to write a poem about the event. As I've mentioned before, she writes compelling poetry that plunges deep into the despondency and suffering of humanity. There is no shortage of material, but she has been stymied recently by computer glitches, and was unable to log onto WordPress for a while, so there was a hiatus in her work. Strangely, the HomePods also stopped working for a while. Siri kept doing its own thing, suddenly blurting out answers to questions no one had asked, or starting up with unbidden random music. When these systems go wrong, they do so in unique and idiosyncratic ways.

Meanwhile, our son Mike and his partner have started a new computer based business. It is a web design/optimisation service, about which the two of them have considerable experience. So if anyone wants to produce the latest in web pages and reach the top of the search engines, then log onto duodigital. I'm sure they'll have more success than we've had lately with the silicon beasts.

Dog walking brings us into contact with a variety of fellow walkers (always while maintaining social distance rules naturally). For the last few months, we tended to pass at a good distance, often swerving to avoid each other, but as lockdown draws to a close people are becoming more sociable again. This morning it was an older lady walking with a stick and three Welsh springer spaniels. I had Byron on the lead, but Bronte can usually be trusted to "walk on" and ignore other dogs. One of the dogs suddenly started aggressively barking at her, though, causing Bronte to jump and run on. "Oh, she was once nipped by a border collie," the woman explained, "she's disliked them ever since."

Then this evening, two boys stopped to admire my hat, and ask where I got it. I don't think they were being sarcastic. Perhaps it should be a subject for a future painting, if it draws so much interest.