So here's a conundrum: We woke up about a week ago to discover a rather large tree branch on the patio of our garden. It was the morning after highish winds, so we merely assumed that the branch had fallen from the tree above the patio during the night, and thought nothing of it until a closer inspection revealed that the tree branch belonged to a different type of tree! We have an ash tree in our garden and the branch of came from a sycamore tree. There are no sycamore trees anywhere near our garden. The branch has obviously been picked up and transported. It's still there. The leaves have crinkled up a little, but every time I pass it I wonder how the imposter branch actually got there. Is there a species of poltergeist which specialises in tree transference?
I worked at Jackson's Lane in the morning. A group of elderly people were sitting in the cafe waiting to have their first rehearsal for a play they're putting on. It's the sort of initiative I approve of immensely. There's so much in this world which is specifically aimed at young people, and all too often, the very old are entirely overlooked. The rate of loneliness is so high in this generation, and yet, we have so much to potentially learn from them. It makes no sense to me.
This evening I went down to Embankment Pier and boarded The Silver Sturgeon to assist on a quiz, which was a lot of fun. We went up the Thames as far as the Isle of Dogs. I wanted to wave at Brother Edward as we passed his house, but he was in Barcelona. Looking at Canary Wharf from the river is quite an experience. The lights from the buildings are almost blindingly bright and reflect on the ink black water rather perfectly.
We were running the quiz for an international crowd, mostly European, which meant no one was too cool for school, too pissed to care, or had too many chips on their shoulders about not being bright enough to do a quiz. All of these factors add up to a good time for all. Everyone was charming, dignified, polite and set out to have fun without feeling the need to get so pissed that they fell overboard or vomited all over the soft furnishings. Proof, if any more proof were needed that I view myself as European. I feel more comfortable in the presence of Europeans and feel proud that I share a commonality with them.
I got home to find that Nathan had been locked out of the house and had been taken in like a waif and stray by Little Welsh Nathalie downstairs. They'd spent the night making cookies for the great British Bake Off which we iced when I got home. I made a marmalade paste to smear onto the biscuits before topping them with melted chocolate and dried cherries. Down boy! They were delicious.