Never Could Get The Hang of Thursdays

I spent a good hour on the phone with HMRC this morning, drawing the poor WFH tech into my well of confusion. At 10:30 she said she'd call back after noon. I missed the call. She left a message saying she'll call back after 4, which means I have to cancel my afternoon plans, but the opposite party isn't answering their phone and I can't tell if/when they will have got my email.

I'm going through my Observation Hill photos for my Patreon post on Saturday, writing their alt text descriptions for screen readers, and had to look up when the cross was re-mounted after having blown down. 1994, it turns out, and it was quite the effort (p.44).

I have rather a tender spot when it comes to people memorialising the Polar Party. Worst Journey remains one of a very small handful of books that have made me cry actual tears, but it wasn't when the Polar Party died, it was when the search party found their tent. The Secrets of Scott's Hut hit that spot too, to see how much love and care was being poured into the restoration of the Terra Nova hut. And now those photos of the relay team and the helicopter placing the concrete anchor —

The now-unfamiliar feeling of being a disappointment brought about by this morning's events had, doubtless, put me in an awkward place to begin with, but now I've got something in my eye, and down my throat, and in my chest somewhere too.