"If you don't hurry up it will be too late to go."

"It isn't going to get any darker."

It is just after six pm when we set off.

"It's foggy. We'll need the torches on full power. And we should stay off the road, let's just go down to the hill and then straight over and back."

"It's 10:30, are you ready? The dogs are making a fuss" the Webmaster yells up the stairs. I am in bed reading on-line newspapers.

"I can't find my trousers. You put them away somewhere different every time. Where are they?" Although I haven't looked, it is a safe bet.

"Drying from yesterday's washing."

"I've got more than one pair. Where are the others?" shouting down the stairs and jumping out of bed.

The idea for "Rooted to the Spot" was inspired by Brexit and this project is dedicated to all those people who have, in one way or another, told me and members of my family that if we were proud of our roots we shouldn't need to move away.

Rooted to the spot: "unable to move because you are very frightened or shocked" - Collins English Dictionary

"We need to go now otherwise it will be dark before we get back. I didn't expect it would take so long to sort out the Gopro."

"Will I need my wellies?

"We'll have time to go round the lake, so yes."

The dogs have settled down. They gave up pestering for a walk at about lunch time. Now they sense that we are getting ready they follow us around, getting in the way.

"It's cold tonight, it hasn't been this cold for ages."

"Those clouds are interesting, those with the pink tops."

"Which clouds? I can't see any. .. Oh those, I can see them now there is a gap in the hedge."

"Shortarse!"

"Have we got time for a walk? There was a queue all along the M60 slip road so I'm later than I expected."

"If you don't mind eating later, it's already 19:20."

We find the torches and set off. It will definitely be dark before we get back. 

The sun has already set and the last red glow is beginning to fade. Over the valley ribbons of street lights look like distant fairy lights. A few birds are still swooping overhead. Crows. Maybe Jack, Marjorie and their mate! It is too dark to see them properly so no chance of even pretending to recognise them.

"Have you got the app for identifying the stars?"

"It's cloudy, I'm the only star you'll see tonight."

"Haha. I think my torch needs new batteries, it keeps flashing at me. I'll take the Student's torch as well as mine."

"It's cold. I'm putting a coat over my fleece."

"It's almost dark already and we are only five minutes later than yesterday."

"But is has been dull and overcast since mid afternoon. There was heavy rain; see all the puddles."

"Could be a lot of frogs in the road again."

There is still enough light for us not to need the torches as we set off, but it is decidedly gloomy and damp.

"I finished strimming in the orchard and I got the hedge trimmer started with the new spark plugs, but the brake has jammed on. It will either need replacing or bodging."

"Most of the frost has gone. It looks quite nice out but I think I'll take my gloves."

"Don't open the door until the dog is on his lead."

It is mid morning. The sun is bright and the sky blue. A lovely winter's day. There are still patches of ice on the lane where the direct sunlight has not yet reached."

"Walk on the right, it's not as icey."

My retirement in the style of Brexit and the Brexiteers' vision of post Brexit trade have finally come together. In jam. Apple jam and pear jam to be precise. I'm not fond of jam, except occassionally spread thinly, very thinly, on toast. It has too much sugar and I like eating too much to waste calories on fruit flavoured sugar.  Two small pots will last me a year at least. The webmaster doesn't eat any jam. At that rate we've already made enough to last me for the next 40 years (without making a dent in the number of apples) but statistically I don't have 40 years left. Can I leave jam in my will? Does it keep that long? 

"Are you serious? Have you seen the weather? And it's nearly dark."

"Is it raining? Do I need a coat?"

"It isn't raining at the moment."

The Young Dog ignores us and stays curled up on the settee, where he isn't supposed to be. The Old Dog notices we are preparing to go out. The dogs didn't get their usual walk this morning because it was too wet and she wants to go now.

We step outside. The moment of no rain has clearly past.

"Which way?"

"Tongue Lane and up to the church? We can go along the Rocks and then back up from the village. Or do you want to go round the lake? We didn't go for a run today."

"No, let's stick to the lanes. It might be muddy and I don't want the dog to get dirty. She hasn't been very well this week."

"Is it cold? Do I need a hat and gloves?"

"Yes."

"So not 'terribly mild' then like in the week?"

Independence. The good life. Growing our own food. What could be better? This is the dream, our perfect retirement in the style of Brexit, showing those doubters that The Sticks can stand on its own two feet when it comes to feeding itself. Who needs CAP and subsidies? Who needs imported food? We can manage without olive oil and bananas, orange juice or coffee. We've grown our own beans.

Only the beginning of August and summer already seems to have lasted for ever. Of course when I was working I was indoors all day in an air conditioned office and almost oblivious to the world outside, so maybe it isn't so different from other years apart from it's hotter with less rain. I've heard frequent mention of 1976. I remember that summer, between my 1st and 2nd years at university. The good old days. Little did I know then that I only had one more summer of freedom before the world of work would keep me indoors for the best part of every day for the next forty years. In Winter it was dark when I arrived and dark when I left the office. Retirement has reconnected me with plenty of fresh air and more manual work. I feel better but as I said last time it is hard work.

The rewards are different from work. I enjoyed my work and it was intellectually stimulating. I met a great many interesting people from around the world and I felt connected to the international community. I knew someone

Rain, sun or merely dull, the weather is important for Rooted to the Spot. Many of my planned activities and projects are outdoor activities and it is difficult to get motivated for a walk or to start gardening in a downpour or gale. 

We recently assisted a Mexican migrant enter the UK and settle in Staffordshire. The migrant left Mexico in November 2019 and spent 8 months in California. Several earlier attempts, including via the Netherlands, to get her into the UK failed because coronavirus disrupted the travel routes. When she eventually arrived she  had to spend a mere 24 hours in quarantine and that was only due only to a mistake in the paperwork, otherwise she would have been waved through. She has been granted permanent residence in the UK for a relatively small sum of money - certainly less than the cost of a visa. Everyone we speak to thinks it is a touching story. 

I've only just realised a gapping hole in my "retirement in the style of Brexit" plan: I forgot to draw any red lines. The omission of the red lines surely undermines everything. How could I have been so remiss? I was so taken with striking out on my own, regaining my sovereignty, taking back control of my time, freeing myself from corporate rules and seizing the opportunity to negotiate my own deals that I completely overlooked them. And I'd told my husband everything else would carry on as before. No loss of anything. Only benefits. Duh!

Well, who'd 'a' thought it? Mrs May and I have something in common. Last week it was reported that she scraped the mould from the top of her jam and ate the rest. Well I did that too. Just after the New Year. 

One of my jars of home made apple jam had developed a thin layer of mould. All the others were still OK. It was just the one, but I'd opened it, or rather my daughter's Californian boy friend had opened it. Judging by the howl of disgust and look of bemusement I don't think they must get much mould in California. 

Mr Cat, real name Archie, was born in December 2010 and moved to The Sticks in February 2011 with his twin sister, Mrs Cat, real name Cleo.

Mr Cat likes to be comfortable. If he can't lie on a bed or make a nest in the laundry he likes to lie on cardboard or paper. He is particularly fond of sitting on newspapers in precisely the place you are trying to read.

Mr Cat also likes eating. Although rarely successful he never gives up attempting to take his share of the evening meal directly from the plates on the table. While not shy of blatent attempts to climb onto the table he is also a master of a more subtle approach. Sitting on a chair pushed under the table he will extend one paw slowly up and across in an effort to reach his prey.

Mrs Cat, Cleo, the twin sister of Mr Cat, spends her time hunting mice, sleeping where she can find a warm spot, although, unlike her brother, rarely on one of our beds.  In the evenings she likes to curl up on the Webmaster's lap while he is watching television, but it has to be on her terms. All the cats like sitting on the Webmaster, the two "fluffies" will come to a fragile agreement with one on his lap and the other his chest, but Mrs Cat demands exclusivity. Her hiss is louder than her purr and her claws are sharp.  Unlike her brother she never greets the dog by rubbing noses, she is more likely to be seen lashing out at him from above as he innocently walks below.