I sat in the Apothecary's mercantile tonight at four minutes to five of the clock, awaiting the reception of yet another set of bottles and potions from our goodly medical diagnostician, Jubilation C. Scroat. January and February this year have been marked by cold and dampness unsurpassed in recent years in Dingley Dell. With the frost and ice have come bundles of snowflakes, high screeching winds, and the need to cover up everything from head to toe to evade the onslaught of passing viruses.I haven't always been lucky,and seem to have succumbed more than once to streaming nose ,aching bones,and the raw,red throat. Upper respiratory malady is what Jubilation C. calls it, and full of sympathy for my ailing demeanour he raids his bulging medicine chest for suitable remedies to restore me to a rude state. I have had potions of every colour and consistency, tablets and capsules of dried tincture, rubs and scrubs, linaments and inhalants, and still the thieving malady seems to linger on.
I'll be better in the Spring,it must be just around the corner. The blooming daffodils,beds of crocuses,and dwarf tulips are daring to put their heads and colours out into the heart of the day,trying to prove to all us elven folk that nothing weather wise is as bad as it seems.
I have bought some transitional plants to take us from winter season into the first flush of Spring. Priimroses, pale white crocuses, tiny daffodils for the rockery and some winter flowering pansieswhich will bloom on deep into the days of April and May.
The gardens front and back still wear their darken weeds,but some recent blue skies and sunny outlooks have given them courage to begin their early leafing up.
So there I sat,waiting for my prescription,on a dull white seat , while others passed me by,collecting their own remedies or buying for loved ones at home. The minutes crept by,and I entered a strange solitary reverie,sitting there, somehow forgotten by the passing crowd. I fell to watching this pedestrian traffic clutching their medical forms or grabbing their healing parcels and wondering what was on their minds this February day.
Pinkora Nagalleekie shuffled to the counter ,dear old soul, scrabbling in her overlarge holdall when she got there,looking for something important to her, and possibly to the mercantile assistant too. She seemed older today,than I remember her, more bowed, and wrinkly, and growingly needful of the assistance of others- yet hanging on to the last to whatever independence she could muster. She is one of Dingley's oldest residents, she knows every inch of the history of our little town these past eighty years, and often stops to tell of those olden times to anyone younger who takes time to listen. Interesting, wordly wise and wordly dismissive at times, Pinkora seemed especially tired today. The young elven maid behind the counter was cheerful and kind,offering her help,and a merry quip or two, to make her day. But sadly Pinkora never returned the laugh with a smile or two, but stuffed her purchases deep down into her holdall, kept her head low and shuffled off into the cold twilight air. The waiting crowd in the pharmacy were a rum bunch, a mixed horde of restless consumers,unable to hide their desire to be off and away as soon as possible, pushing ever relentlessly forward whenever a chink appeared in the queue, blissfully unaware of anyone else's woes and distresses, and desperately hoping that the next prepared prescription called would be theirs.I was almost slipping into a sleepy reverie,thinking of Pendragon, what parchments I would buy, what ploys Saturday would bring, which delicacies I would make for tea, and how I would spend my Friday evening - on my own, as Pendragon is meeting with the Academics of Metropolis this evening in some grand city hostelry no doubt.
I will miss him but try to get some outstanding chores out of the way and spend at least some time on myself, painting my nails, fixing up some clothes and trying on some delicate new underpinnings.And maybe when the light has fallen to a new darkness, I'll read my favourite poems, plan my radio show, or just sit planning some part of our May
betrothal ceremony.

The Community Radio Station is moving. At our coffee meeting in the Jolly Woodman some weeks ago, Syncopatius Timpo made the announcement. Our lease is up on the building we have been inhabiting and new premises have been hard to find at reasonable rates. Our new studios are being set up and redecorated in a couple of rooms at the back of the Black Fortress,a main Hall in the centre of Dingley Dell's main thoroughfare.
It will be nice to be so close to the centre of the town's lively hubub, but we will miss the sprawling surroundings we have been used to. So it is with trepidation that we make this move. Syncopatius has made it clear that this is a temporary home until a better base can be found, but cheerful though we try to be, the resident presenters are finding it hard to believe that a permanent studio may be some way off in the future. We move in, in March, so more details will unfold as that time approaches.
This is no time to be downhearted though. I resist such glooms as every cloud needs to feel a silver lining will duly evolve. There is much to do to prepare for the Spring time,the fever of new life and a blossoming world will soon be upon us,and the excitement of warmer climes will animate our lust for new activities and new society. I love this time of year. We will glow with renewed vigour and enthuse each other with big dreams and wild schemes before the new month of march is much older.

Make your plans my fine friends for a riotous Primavera, Be looking through last Spring's seasonal garb for items to save. We are in Credit Crunching territory and recycling last year's fashion items will leave us feeling all the more righteous for the experience. Swish it,don't ditch it, as they say.
Merry weekending to you all. I have some scones to bake and a new lace overshawl to complete before the bells of Sunday morn should ring.

Much more soon, from Amarantha Willow, the Rainbow Faery.