First Dip

Scones. (I know, I know, not typical breakfast fare; but they were yummy--and made by me.)

Yesterday I had my first alfresco swim of the year. I say "swim," that's a generous description of the very brief few strokes I made through the cold, cold, lily loch. (It's yet to get its lilies.)

The dog did not at all approve of my dip. And while it may have been chilly, you couldn't really ask for a better swim spot.

An Open Letter to Donald Trump

Toast and honey.

Dear Donald Trump,

I think I speak for many Scots when I say that your hair is beyond preposterous and ask "do you want to be known for centuries to come as 'Deranged Donald - the man who destroyed a site of special scientific interest?'"

I for one would much rather look at a wind turbine than Trump International Golf Links. After all, the former is a temporary structure with a minimal environmental impact; the latter is a permanent structure with a devastating environmental impact.

Nice offshore wind turbines

Not so nice Trump International Golf Links

I sincerely hope that Aberdeen Renewable Energy Group get their offshore wind farm and that you, Mr Trump, "get tae fuck" (as we poor, naive, renewable energy-supporting Scots would say).

Yours sincerely,

Iona's Breakfast

I am no lumberjack

If this evening's log-splitting efforts are anything to go by, I can safely rule out lumberjacking as a plan-B career (or lumberjilling as Miss Ramsay and I decided it should be called sometime when we were shifting bonfire materials and I was revealing my incredible weakness and she was demonstrating her freakish strength.)

The Turnip Princess

Doppelganger shreddies and muesli.

New fairytales, huzzah. Strangely, I had turnip for supper this evening. No princes or princesses have since materialised.

I Always Wear Wellies

Doppelganger Shreddies.

 Sometimes I wonder whether I ought to don my hiking boots like a proper walker person; but wellies are so much better for standing in the sea in.

Is this Old Age?

I am falling to pieces. (Physically, not emotionally--which is a nice change.) The other night I yawned and pulled a muscle in my ribcage somewhere near my left shoulder blade. (Yes, I did just yawn on typing that. And again.)

Is this old age? I'm pretty accident prone. I need some resilience against my clumsiness. It's really no good if the business of growing older means injuring oneself more easily and these injuries taking longer to heal (I'm talking to you rotator cuff). Today I dropped a log on my knee taking it out of the wheel barrow. This is a pretty standard altercation with an everyday object for me. I wouldn't ordinarily remember having done it except that it's actually rather tender still. I'm sure that in my younger days this wouldn't have hurt. Instead, when I noticed the bruise some days later, I would vaguely recall the log-dropping and attribute it to that.

Apologies again for the lack of photo. Can't find my card reader. I had potato scones with gooseberry jam.

Yawns and Ghosts

Toast with gooseberry jam.

Writing about other people yawning makes me yawn. That's how suggestible I am. In other news, a woman talking on her mobile phone outside the front of the house scared the crap out of me this evening. I could only just barely make out that the peculiar sound I was hearing was a voice. But it sounded so strange I rather persuaded myself it was supernatural. Having talked myself down, I went to the kitchen and came back to the morning room to discover that the previously closed curtains were now half-open (I think this was the dog's doing). Can't a scaredy cat catch a break?