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A dead starling

31 March, in the year of our Lord 2020

Up betimes, and a dead starling on the hall mat, the perpetrator nowhere. After a meagre breakfast to my friend’s house where I did feed his cat, which is the most companionable and inquisitive I ever did see in my life; and did take my Book Club book to read chosen by Mr. T. Radford, which is ‘Crime and Punishment’ – an odd circumstance, I did reflect, since it would not come to be written for two hundred years – there to sit and give companionship to the cat, though after a short while it did nip out not to be seen again till suppertime, whereupon I pondered on the conceit of cats and the nature of gratitude. Strange to see the streets so quiet, as if there is lately something going on of which I know nothing.
  Anon, and being at leisure I did bake a pie of blackberrys, which I know to be not in season but were lately a gift from my father who had kept them on ice and assured me of their worth notwithstanding the date of 2017 writ on the container, which in truth perplexed me further since it is either 350 years from now or three ago. I did later question my wits for the blackberrys, for early evening with some grutchings, the consequences apparent by nightfall which I shall not relate save that the paucity of closet paper doth trouble me the more. And so to bed.

By andywmacfarlane

I am a retired medic who likes messing around with a bit of writing, and friends seemed to like my social media postings of "Samuel Pepys: The Covid Diaries". So I'm having a go at blogging them.

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