Strange lights

Whilst driving through the country lanes that twist their way towards Stansted Airport from Thaxted this evening, I became very conscious of the strange reflections that the headlights of my father's  car were casting in the sky on the left hand side of the car. A shower of feint lights seemed to be dancing in the darkness. 

I pointed them out to my Mum, who said "gosh, is that just the effect of the headlights?"

...It wasn't. We turned a corner and drove along a straight section of road, where the hedges were low, and were astonished to discover that the lights in the sky were nothing to do with our car. 

I warn all readers that there is no satisfactory end to this story. I will probably never know what caused the phenomenon. Low in the Eastern sky, two smudgy rings of light were hovering in the sky. The rings spread out and then closed in again, repeatedly, like one of those bizarre electric jelly fish you get miles below the surface of the sea.

It was plainly not something supernatural. I'm sure it was merely a set of party lights on the ground that were somehow being reflected by low-hanging cloud. It was, however, rather odd to see, so close to the airport, as though some strange space ship was trying to make contact with the metal flying birds it had observed on earth! 

I had a lovely afternoon today on Upper Street with Julie and the guys who run the beach bar we used to hang out in in Italy. It was such a privilege to  hang out with them. They've become complete Anglofiles and were photographing every street sign, antique store or display of wool that we passed! 

I don't think there's anything more important in life than enthusiasm. I have inherited a love for life from my parents, who I guess must have taught me that there's something uniquely interesting or entertaining in any situation. "Only boring people get bored," my mother would say, and she was right. Boredom is dangerous. Those without a lust for life become engulfed by bitterness which eats away at them from the inside. I therefore greatly appreciate the great lovers on this planet. They're the ones who will keep us going when we're all forced to return to more simple living. 

Less fun was trying to find a space on Upper Street, where parking only becomes free on a Saturday after 1.30pm, and otherwise costs a staggering £5 per hour. I drove round and round desperately looking for a meter, only to find one that was broken. The only method of payment available was the dreaded automated phone system. I was in my parent's car, and its registration wasn't logged on the system under my phone number. My most recent debit card was similarly unrecognised by the computer voice, which eventually decided it was best all round if the virtual conversation was brought to an abrupt halt. "Goodbye!" she said, before f***ing off! 

By the time I'd called again, and painstakingly typed various letters and numbers into the system, periodically failing, and needing to start all over again, it was almost half past one. The whole process took precisely 23 minutes, which cost the council about £2 in lost parking revenue.

350 years ago, and Pepys sat for Mr Savill the painter. He obviously had a crafty peak at the unfinished picture, because he left feeling unhappy that the image wouldn't be a good likeness. 

He lunched with Lady Sandwich and a ghastly woman who talked obsessively about the importance of being on trend when it came to fashion, and spent hours rubbishing country gentlewomen for their outdated taste in clothes. Pepys was unimpressed, despite being something of a 17th Century dandy himself. 

He had a run of very vivid dreams that night. He dreamt that his wife had been thrown badly from a horse and broken her leg and then that he himself was in so much pain that he woke up... In terrible agony. Fortunately, it appears the pain was psychosomatic, as the following day, he was as fit as a fiddle. Maybe waking up with the terrible pain was also part of the dream. Poor Pepys, ever worried by his health.