It’s been a bad month. You might have been able to tell, what with the total absence of posts and all.
No need to bother with the whys and wherefores. Most folk resident in Blighty might have some clue, although the press coverage of he latest spat between GP Land and Her Britannic Majesty’s Government hasn’t exactly been at the fore-front of the news agenda. Add that to the arrival of a new Student (whom I’m trying desperately to inoculate against the cynicism of my confreres—after all somebody’s got to step up to the plate and keep working to pay for my pension) and a rash of young adults bent on their own self –destruction, and overall the latter half of January through to now has been, in common parlance, “a bit of a bugger”.
And yet today, on the usual drive in to surgery, things somehow feel a little brighter. For one thing, half term is upon us, so no school run and no school traffic. Also all weekend, and again this morning, the sun has been shining, with nary a cloud in the sky. Daffodils are starting to nod in the verges, and a scattering of purple-pink crocuses dapple the floor of our own little wood at Jest Acres.
On the road to the surgery, roughly half way between Borchester and Ambridge, the road climbs sixty metres or so on to the Ambridge Escarpment. It’s a pretty enough stretch of road, but today, under Canaletto Blue skies suffused with the golden glow of the early morning sun, at this spot God is plainly in his heaven, and very little can be wrong with the world.
Governments come and go, as indeed do GP’s, students, suicidal teens and all the other trappings of modern existence. Yet some things still hint to us of eternity and perfection.
And in that context all the distractions of the past month boil away to nothing.
*For those who were wondering Dr J is indeed an unreconstructed hippie and flower-child who's formative years were profoundly affected by the Summer of Love. Not that you'd ever be able to tell nowadays.