The weather has turned. We're shuffling round in a cold, grey, dark world. Remaining leaves are hanging by a thread with leaf piles lying in humps, and random odd bods are scattered in gutters. There's welcome winter drizzle escalating to rain. Moisture drips slowly, slowly, soaking into parched earth. Our east coast summer was dry and autumn in lock down produced day after day of clear blue sunshine. Kids' brains are hibernating as we spend hours indoors in humid, close quarters. Great for Covid spread but New Zealand's last new case was ten days ago, ish. We have only one active case left in the North Island so we're sliding into casual contact. Covid is talked about but we're thinking beyond social distancing and isolation. The world is distracted too. George Floyd' death at the hands of four white police officers, and the resulting Black Lives Matter protests around the world, sweep anger onto the streets. People forget Covid to march in support of change. We're appalled at the entrenched injustices of institutionalised racism. What century is this anyway?
House action today consists of Mark and his mate sanding the plaster they slapped on last week. I pick up sample tiles for the kitchen and main bathroom. Tossing up an expensive option for a capping tile. If it's going to happen it has to be now.
Back home, I'm exhausted. It's been a busy week, again, and it's not over. I should sit down to mark, and I start half-heartedly, but red wine, and Sherry's arrival put paid to that. I settle on the couch and sleep while Chris and Sherry have a catch up.
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