At the End of the Day

As I retreated indoors this evening, the sunset’s golden light was playing on the fresh Spring green of the poplar leaves to create an extraordinary red glittering effect. Of course, it is the brain behind my eyes that sees this and finds it pleasing. The great painter uses that brain to recapture the sensory effect. The photographer these days has a Mac to try and achieve the same fascination.

We are having classic Spring Lot-et-Garonne weather at the moment. Each day involves a series of tortuous decisions about layers, socks, hats, trousers and so forth. It’s very pleasant in the sun, and bloody freezing when a big enough cloud of dark grey depth drifts slowly by. Changes from blue to grey and sun to rain are swift. It’s fine to nod off for a siesta, but sudden droplets of rain chilled at 5000 ft are not the most gentle alarm clock in the world.

One looks around a garden at this time of year, and it’s like opening mail replete with tax demands and service bills: there are always at least twenty things that require attention: hedges, weeds, grass, seedlings, early vegetables, benches in need of paint, compost heaps to be turned, old branches to be lopped, creepers to control, and beer bottles to be emptied. There is an inverse correlation between the bottle-emptying and the compost-turning, but that’s not new news: the gap between human aspiration and achievement is  ever-present.


Not that I care that much about Scotland, but I find myself a tad disturbed by the news tonight that the SNP are on course to win every seat north of the border. The Nationalist leader Nicola Sturgeon could thus – if and when the Scots win independence – become Nicoletta Sturgeone: the ruler of a One-Party mafia State with expansionist imperial ambitions. The Godmother.

Imagine a future in which La Dittatrice Sturgeone declares her Picts to be the rightful owners of the English Republic, and commands her Mcfascisti to swarm across the border in order to claim their historic birthright.

It would represent a calamity: London’s streets overflowing with staggering Rab Nesbitts, City gents forced to wear kilts with no underwear, every fish n ship shop required by law to offer deep-fried Snickers, and every football manager to be Scottish.

On the other hand, from the smug perspective of down here in delightful South West France….bring it on.

Earlier at The Slog: Why the right to abstain is more important than the duty to vote

4 thoughts on “At the End of the Day

  1. Don’t know about anone else, but I would far rather hear more about the richness and fullness of life in Lot-et-Garonne than the cavortings of self-important monkeys north of the border whose ignorance of economical reality is matched only by their mawkish attachment to the imaginary Braveheart bollocks which has led them so sadly astray.


  2. You have raised an interesting point……
    The Scots have excelled themselves in many respects, leaving the nation isolated from the main body of the United Kingdom. They have made themselves very unpopular with English clients in the financial world, leaving themselves open to the triple whammy of reduced revenues from oil and gas, reduced revenues from tax raising/spending powers delegated from Westminster, and loss of business in insurance and bankingand tourism. Not to mention the personality profile of the likes of Salmond and Sturgeon. This must be the best example of turkeys voting for Christmas in recent history. Bring it on Scotland. Welcome to the real world of Socialism , as exists in mainland europe. Beautiful scenery and low population doesn’t butter the parsnips.
    No wonder everyone ( including embarrassed scots folks) wants to live in England – and this trend will continue.


  3. I went to the latest meeting in George (now known colloquially as ‘Freedom’) Square, Glasgow last Saturday and I must say that it was most enjoyable. What was most impressive was the level of support from citizens who appeared to care about what happened to their Country. And why not? They’ve been shafted by Westminster for ages and they harbour a refreshing ambition to look after themselves (and not to declare war on anyone) yet ambiguously think that the EU (of which they remain a part) is a good idea. Toms and (apparently foreign) beggars were commonplace but Sauchiehall Street seems to have shaken off the off-putting reputation it once had and the locals were welcoming to someone with an English accent. Religious intolerance is still alive and kicking; the English MSM apparently don’t report on the unwelcome violence which seems to attend the marches which are still held there. I didn’t meet anyone who admitted to wanting to live in England (why would they?)


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