Sunday morning

Hello. 

It's still early here. At least one of us is still asleep.

There is almost-silence in the rest of the house (though I think Tony's up and about) and in the road outside. One of the many blessings and delights of Hastings where I live (in England's East Sussex) is that it's not a 24/7 place — its life still has rhythms and Sunday mornings are peaceful. Less traffic. Not so many people about — though as I understand it, dogs merely laugh at Sundays so the park will have plenty of four-footed people as well as the runners who like to be out before the heat of the day.

And I was going to tell you about something interesting . . . ermmm . . . what was it? Oh yes! I know!

Television. I find it harder and harder to watch anything with threat or violence or suspense. There was a short but excellent series called New Blood on UK television three years ago. We really enjoyed watching it, and when Hebe discovered it had appeared on Netflix, she saw the first two episodes and enjoyed it as much as ever. So a couple of days ago, I sat down to see Episode 3 with her, and about five minutes in realised I couldn't stay and watch it. New Blood is a crime drama, so naturally alarming and scary things happen in it — but it's also full of affectionate friendship, and loyalty and kindness and human interest in general. In 2016 I thoroughly enjoyed it, and now I just can't watch it. It makes too much tension in my body.

Tonight, Episode 3 of Sally Wainwright's new series Gentleman Jack is on telly. It starts at 9pm which is about when I finish. By that time I've had my crushed raw garlic, cider vinegar, propolis and Manuka honey, and am slowly beginning to turn back into a pumpkin. So I see Gentleman Jack on Monday afternoon on catch-up. But (the Gentleman Jack in question is a woman) I'm worried about her already. I absolutely love Sally Wainwright's writing, everything of hers that I've seen has been superb. But the hallmark of its strength is in astute observation, never shying away from how things really are. This makes her characters vivid and true, their interactions sparkle with shrewdly observed detail. She gets things just right. And now I'm worried that something bad is going to happen to Ann Lister (the central character). Not all the people she knows are kind and good. Some of them are ruthless and corrupt. I want to watch the story all the way through, so I do hope nothing too frightening happens. 

A huge fuss has been made in the media about Ann Lister's sexual orientation, as if they'd just invented lesbianism themselves this morning, but there is so much more to Gentleman Jack than sexual encounter. It manages to bring to life the complex and intricate web of household and neighbourhood relationships, questions of motivation and how people treat one another, what can be said and done and what must be kept sub rosa. I find it completely absorbing, as much as her (Sally Wainwright's) wonderful To Walk Invisible, about the life of the Brontës.

My very favourite photograph of Sally Wainwright is in this article on some of her recent writing (Last Tango in Halifax, and Happy Valley, both of which were superb).

Oh, now look at that — Tony's brought me a cup of (nettle) tea in bed. That's so loving and kind.

The little cover he made for my wall-sockets (because I think electric fixtures are ugly) is just right as a mini bedside table. It's where I put my clock and my drink — on a coaster Tony also made. Above the clock is a small round Nepalese purse (imagine UK purse as in thing to keep money in, not US purse as in handbag). It's just the right size to roll up my Apple earphones and put them inside, and there's a small hole in the zipper perfect for hanging it on a pot hook. To unzip it, I don't need to take it off the hook, just pull it and the zip opens.

Pot hooks are part of my life essentials.

May your Sunday be happy and blessed. The sun is shining here in Hastings. I think it's going to be a lovely day.