We’ve both had mild colds so the holiday season hasn’t been all joy. Also, Monica’s gall stones dictate a low fat diet which doesn’t chime well with most Christmas fare.

We were at Una’s for the nights of Isaac Newton’s birthday and its eve. I had hoped to call in on Jill but Kevin and Molly hitched a ride down so had neither time nor the collective inclination. Bandit came along, chased the cat, ate its food and woofed at everyone; she had a lot more fun than us. Grump, grump, harrumph.

Very glad to be back home, especially as no-one had nicked any of our stuff this time. Without much seasonal gaiety here, this year, we’ve had a few quiet days but the lurgy frustrated my plans to get on with the workshop. Work on the farm is very much a lesson in enjoying the journey.

At the neighbours, last night, after a few drinks, there was a discussion about concepts of home. David and Jessica have led itinerant working lives like us. They and Monica said, for them, home is their parents’ place plus wherever they are now. They agreed that neither meant anything tying or permanent. This highlighted an interesting progression in my definition: I don’t think I’d ever have used the term “home” before now with any conviction; now, Warland is my home because I envision slow trading of my care of the place for its care of me, stretching out until the end of my active, sentient days. Even if I have to move out for health reasons, this place will have been a real home and, as such, earns my change of name.

As you know, Dave was planning to install his metalwork tools in my shed. He announced last night that he can accommodate them in his own new sheds. This is a good thing because I will still have access to them and can be more ambitious with my plans for the smithy that was going to share the space. Maybe an air hammer to save my feeble elbows; sure, the neighbours couldn’t object, could they? Here’s a link that shows what I’m after creating (i.e. the space: the skills come later) http://youtube.com/watch?v=paCyA9ypEOE

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