So. London has a new mayor. The Labour Party is shaken to its roots. The Conservative Party is shocked rigid with the realization that it’s rather liable to be back in power in a couple of years and will need to work out how it’s going to put our money where its mouth is. And, finally, we have a Prime Minister who’s tired and weary, over-stretched and out of ideas. Even if he had some good ideas, no-one would believe him.
I’ll not bore you with the fiasco of the English and Welsh local elections that have run from last Thursday. Anyone in Britain who doesn’t know the story already wouldn’t understand my version, and my friends in other countries have better things to do than worry about our politics, though I suspect they’d fully understand my feeling that the only good thing about our current state is that it’s shoved Obama and Clinton out of the headlines. Makes a nice change, does that.
“Tell you what,” I said while we were driving home yesterday evening.
“What’s that, then?”
“I think the time may have come for us to emigrate.”
“Oh, you’ll have to choose that. Just so long as it’s in the EU.”
“How’s about Holland?”
“Holland is cool. Desperately difficult language to learn, though.”
“Ah. I shall think on.”
Don’t take us too seriously. Please don’t take us too seriously. We’re not really likely to emigrate, not unless we win a Lottery Jackpot, that is. We don’t have the nerve. I wouldn’t mind betting that we’ll look back on this in five or so years and wish that we had, though.
Hey ho. Graham’s home until tomorrow. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to take another little break while the trannies are there so it might be Monday next week before he returns. Dolly and I shall entertain ourselves best we can until then.
I picked up an old water-colour paint box, sighed, wrapped it up in its travel bag, and put it back in the cupboard. You never know with me but although I seem to be heading for a painterly period, it’s on a slow train, with many hazards on the line.
My travelling paint box