The first pint after Christmas is refreshing after all that wine. And it is a pint and not half a litre. So entrenched in British culture is the pint of beer that it remains, probably, the last officially recognised imperial measure.
A lone sea gull, its white feathers lit by the morning sun, glides over our house. It is far from the sea, but not far from another attraction, the council rubbish tip to the south of the town
This afternoon I settle down with a book. An hour later I look up to see that it is already dark.
Insisting on the beauty of sunlit seagulls, even when I know they are going to the rubbish tip, or more likely around here, feeding on the contents of agricultural slurry, is a discipline I have worked at. If they were rarer and romantic, like curlews, they would be a great wonder.
Up with the pint! Also of course down (the hatch).
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