Crossed Paths.

Somewhere on some social media outlet, I made vague promises that this week's lockdown journal would be on the subject of female anger. I got about 200 words in, fueled by whisky and some musky, heavy female hormones and realised I was far too pissed off to write it. I had two options, carry on with the words I had scribbled together, because I said I would - but that just made me angry... so I thought screw it, it is my blog I will write what the hell I want.  I voiced my sentiments, mainly to myself, because no-one gave any shits, and came to understand, somewhat angrily that I had covered some of the bases- so I moved on.  And if you have a problem with that you can take it up with my manager, alright? 

It has been a long weekend of muddy running and promised snow. Only the snow didn't arrive (yet) and if I am really honest I am just longing for spring. I need some colour back into my grey bones and I want to see if my not-so-green fingered gardening efforts are going to come into fruition. I am a particularly poor gardener but my heart is somewhere near the right place. I am already planning my to-dos for this year's garden progress and am hoping that perhaps we have some semblance of spring and summer to do it in. It is usually at this time, after a dabble in a dry(er) January that I start to long and plan for spring and summer trips; this year I haven't even had the usual existential crisis about really longing for some adventurous travel but knowing my budget will keep us firmly within the British Isles. I haven't even mustered up the usual see-how-far-we- can-get-on-500-quid search. I don't know whether this is acceptance or  just despair? The children are nearly all grown up now, the joy they used to get from seeing a couple of college students dressed as a camp tiger is now nostalgia and yet we are not quite at the point we can huddle in country pubs when the weather is too shite to do anything else. Besides, the holiday companies are no longer begging us to venture forth out of our homebound Covid comas, they are all too aware that many folk have found the confidence to move about, and the prices are double what we paid last year. 

As much as I am longing to go anywhere outside of my very local locale, I am saved by my ability to explore on foot. I have discovered that whilst I am becoming bored senseless walking through my environs, despite my love of nature and my curiosity in the natural world - if I run and observe at a slightly faster pace:  " Look there's a swan! cormorant! A heron! An unidentified bird of prey!," the joy is still there. Perhaps it is purely practicality, when the sun is beating down on your back, it is easier to get lost in the long grass, chasing grasshoppers but right now I want the benefits of nature, without the hanging about in it. If I am going to be honest and frank I am slightly natured out. I am actually longing for sweaty, pub crawl and the slight possibility of someone getting just a little too close. 

Soon, I will be forced to practise resolves that I have made to myself over this lockdown. My husband often uses the word curmudgeonly to describe me- and he is right. In the past I have used that excuse to keep away from social gatherings and the what-not because I want to have the freedom to be a grumpy shit without the reprisal from others. This endless covid saga has taught me that some folk are absolutely fine about hanging about with a grumpy, old woman because she can be entertaining and full of fun too. Just because I have an inability to keep some thoughts firmly in my head doesn't mean that all folk want to keep away. On that note, I have promised myself that when I have a plan and it involves someone else I will just ask them, and if they say no - well fuck 'em- I can always use their rejection for the fuel needed to complete the post about female anger. 

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