Yup, it’s another post whilst the monster rainbow stained glass window afghan grows and grows behind the scenes.
And it’s another waterlogged post. Because really, this rain is getting silly now. You’ve made your point, rainclouds, or maybe you haven’t because I’m not sure quite what your point is, other than the fact that we’ve ballsed up the climate and everyone is having bonkers weather of one sort or another this year. I’ve been pottering around Oxfordshire again, this week accompanied by my lovely aunt who has come to stay. She seemed to be under the ridiculous illusion that this footpath was impassable:-
So instead, we went to look at the river, which has become, in the words of my wise old toddlers, “the sea”.
I took a few pictures of the watery craziness, because it was so, well, crazy. I talked to complete strangers as we all stood about staring at the water, and commiserated with those whose houses were threatened by the rising Thames. The flooding has broken down social inhibitions, as well as physical boundaries. It’s hard to even see where the river usually ends.
And another one:-
Naturally, my knitting got a look-in, too:-
But tearing ourselves away, we wandered into Wallingford. Here, at the 16th century George Hotel, we found some gratifying quirkiness. Legend has it, in our bloody 17th century Civil War, that a Royalist by the name of John Robson was fatally stabbed in the bar-room. His betrothed fled grief-stricken to her room, where she mixed her salty tears with soot from the fire, and painted tear-drops on the wall.
By luck, the ‘tear-drop room’ had not been booked tonight, so we persuaded the staff to take us up there, where we saw this:-
I’m not sure what to make of it. Are you?