Pockets of loveliness...

So what are you watching then? How are you filling these early dark days when there is barely light enough to to play in the garden. And who wants to play in the garden... ? Where the sedge is withered from the lake, and NO BIRDS SING. Keats got it. But I'm not here to bang on about the birds. Or the bees. Even though, would you believe, a bee flew into the house today? A bee! I thought it was a wasp at first, and was about to administer a godawlmighty thwack with The Times, until closer inspection revealed it to be a worker bee. (I am such an entomologist. ) So fretful as I was of its angry buzzing, I managed to unlock the window and let it escape into the unseasonably balmy climes of a British winter.

So The Times remained in its post-husband, devoured-at-breakfast state, and just as he left it. Bent back at the Business Section. And well-showered. You got the picture? Definitely damp around the edges. Tempting. And because of my benevolence, no bee blood tainted it further.

Earlier, the unopened newspaper on the dining table this morning had prompted, Dearest to comment on how amusing Frasier had been last night. Yes, we've gone back to a boxed set of Fraser as an anti-dote to all the bleak pre-apocalyptic drama we've been watching. (Hard Sun, if you're interested in a gratuitously graphic depiction of violence.)  Last night, Frasier himself, was promoting the importance of a breakfast coffee and a pristine, read by no-one  newspaper. Yes, yes, we all recognise the similarities.
But that aside, I have to say that a nightly return to Frasier is like a cup of Horlicks. Soothing and familiar, and a balustrade against the slings and arrows of non-existent sparrows.

Sorry, I obviously have a bird in my bonnet. Or is it a bee? Who can tell?

Thank you for listening, Dr Crane