From the Old English Wordhord this week:

wræc-hwīl, f.n: period of misery or exile. (WRACK-HWEEL /ˈwræk-ˌhwiːl/)

This word feels appropriate to describe my life over the past months, banished from my own home by renovations.

I spent four nights at Electromagnetic Field, literally in a field, where I had an excellent time. In fact, when you don’t have your own home to go back to, a tent begins to feel a lot like home.

I saw a strange bird that I think was a wood pigeon × feral pigeon hybrid. It was scruffy looking, and larger than a feral pigeon. I didn’t manage to take a photo, unfortunately. Apparently such hybrids are rare, but do happen.

Our house is minimally habitable. There is a bathroom, and the two bedrooms are painted. The kitchen won’t be finished for a few weeks, so eating is a challenge, but we can sleep and wash and use the toilet. We’ll probably move back this week.