Tuesday 24th November, 2020
I take some control of my life by getting up early to get out and buy essential ingredients with which to bake a cake. Although a simple task, the commitment to producing something with my own fair hands is uplifting.
Overnight I had soaked the fruit in tea, so I could not dodge my self-imposed deadline to make a cake for my sister to take home to my mother, who lives on the north coast of the county. I make one for me too.
The weather is cold, but there is sunshine until early afternoon when it disappears behind the hill south of my apartment.
I text my first brother. He is feeling very weak and will not be watching the Pompey game on his PC as he needs to rest. He follows developments on the radio, which requires less effort.
I order a large art book from the local independent retailer. I am promised delivery of Ralph Steadman’s A Life in Ink tomorrow. His association with Hunter S Thompson is one of literature’s great double-acts. I have rarely bought an art book in my life before and am prepared for a big hit tomorrow. It turns out to retail at £45.00. Worth every penny.