Post 452. THE DRY SUMMER THAT WAS

 BECAME THE DIRE AUTUMN THAT IS

COLD, WET, AND WINTRY.
It isn't my time of year or my kind of weather, but it does give me the opportunity to indulge in the Englishman's top topic of conversation other than his dog and the shit state the country is in.
Yep. it's the weather again. Only a citizen of this daft kingdom can understand it, but the weather has always been an obsession with us, probably because we are a very small island and we get an awful lot of it: right now the sun is trying to peel the paint off the car outside; when I started writing it was pitch black and peeing down, and I switched on the desk lamp to see the keyboard.
That's only at Wootton Bridge. Family and friends living but a few miles from us can experience different weather from us and from each other. Rain. Shine. Wind. There's no sense to it.
And there's no sense to today's Britain, either. C'est la vie.
But it's not the country I was brought up in.
FINISHED READING

A COMPELLING INSIGHT into an actor's life.
A plane here, a boat there, a train elsewhere. If Alan Rickman's diaries had done nothing more they would at least have convinced me - stage fright apart - that I'd never have made it in the acting profession. It takes unflagging dedication, immense courage, and the patience to be tactful with any colleague of irksome ego. It takes a lot of wisdom and dependable gut instinct. He had it all. He also travelled a lot and seldom ate at home: a lot of restaurant owners and chefs will have missed him when he went. So will his bevy of lifelong friends. I only briefly saw him in person once (at Anthony Minghella's farewell service on the IW), but I liked him as did the many million others who enjoyed his varied acting performances. I don't think he'd want a lot of grief. I think he'd have tutted at that. RIP Mr Rickman. Your diaries are a welcome addition to my library.