Lady shot off as fast, as far and as furious as ever when I let her off the lead at the edge of the village this morning. I was feeling somewhat less vivacious, it was the morning after we shifted the clocks forward an hour which always disorientates me. The shift back in autumn has the opposite effect, it energizes me; I hardly notice the one hour shift from the UK to central Europe but it can take me a week to settle in to summer time. In an attempt to prepare for the change I like to adopt my father's method of altering the clocks early on Saturday evening so that we go to bed in summer time but the morning is still difficult.
There was a grey-blue hue to the sky, streaky to the west, to the east blotches letting enough sunlight through to form long weak shadows in front of us. A constant stream of wind flowed round us from the west.
My mind drifted to the bedtime story I had read my grandson last night, a Disney version of Kipling's Jungle Book. I'd struggled through the Czech text while he corrected my linguistic limitations and enthused at the illustrations of the characters. I recalled an English teacher, “Who do you think is the real hero of this story?” she would ask us to get us to think below the surface of what we had read. “And which character would you identify with?” I dwelt on this. Am I a Maughli, not wanting to see the dangers in life, am I an over-serious Baghera, or perhaps a Baloo bumbling through life? I'm probably a bit of each. Reflecting on our tendencies helps us to know how we react in life, what we are attracted to and why things upset us. Of course I must say I'm familiar only with Disney's adaptation of these characters, I haven't read the original.
After breakfast we will read another chapter, it will good for both of us.
The last dregs
3 hours ago