Market Day.
This morning I didn't write much before mother, and her crippled body, descended the stairway and put a stop to the journal I keep. On the X99, which is running a little late, we are passing The Windmill pub on a glorious Thursday afternoon. It might be filled to the rafters with school kids upstairs, but that is OK as downstairs is fairly civilised and quiet (except for the Kurdish (???) lady who sells the Big Issue in the Market Place in Wetherby and a couple of octogenarians - with masks still in place - who whitter constantly). We're heading up Langwith Hill, Collingham, where I once delivered mail and once asked, in utter desperation, to go for a poo-poo in a residence I delivered to off Hillcrest. That was such a long time ago: during Foot and Mouth. The Rapeseed in the field by the turning onto Crabtree Lane is the brightest yellow. It's a wonderful day. This morning was still too cold for tomatoes, and there was a slight frost in Yorkshire... I hope it wasn't on...