Monthly Archives: June 2009

A very good thought

We’ve spoken often about our back garden since moving in, surveying what we have and talking around plans to ‘improve’ it.  It looks as though we’ve fallen in love with it much the way it is and that, apart from tidying it, taming it a little, and removing a couple of over-grown shrubs that are not to our taste, we’re likely to leave it be.

The killer has been this past couple of weeks when a large spread of a pink-flowered shrub (don’t know the name of it) outside the two bedroom windows has been in full production, attracting the close and busy attention of a crowd of bumble-bees.  You can’t help but love a garden that’s friendly and attractive to wild life and we have a variety of insects, birds and small critters that would bring joy to any naturalist, amateur or professional.

But, busy, buzzy bees are special:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

It’s the ‘bee-loud glade’ that I take as my image of course. I have no ambition to build a cabin now, nor plant my own beans. And I have little need to live alone.

So, then.

A day spent getting the house ready for Graham’s departure.  And getting him ready.  And getting me ready.  Dolly the mega-cat is as ready as she’ll ever be, not that she’s going anywhere.

I think we have our plans and our approach pretty well mapped out but I’ll document as we go along rather than sketch the unsketchable.

Graham has already started making a list of the jobs he wants to do, and the order in which he wants to do them, when he returns in the autumn.

That’s a good thought.  A very good thought.

Return, with feeling

“I’m feeling like an aging Nazi in this shirt,” I said as I tucked into my IKEA breakfast this morning, wearing my brand new short sleeve black shirt.

“Do aging Nazis spill bean juice down their fronts, then?” Graham said, reaching over with a clean tissue.

“Oh, shit!” I said, with feeling.

This is not a hiatus

This is a temporary interruption.  Nothing to worry about.  I used to call it ‘being totally written out’.  Now I call it being lazy.

I’ll be back before the end of the month.  Keep safe.

All’s well that doesn’t end

Seven o’clock and all’s well.  Just late, is all, and my evening glass of wine is calling.  I’ll try to do better tomorrow.  Promise.

Full of pith

Graham’s home once more.  He took one look out of the back window and announced that we are going to have to get a gardener/clearance man in to hack the ‘undergrowth’ down to the earth and take all the detritus away.

“You can’t possibly do it,” he said when I offered to have a go.  ”And I’m not going to be here through the summer so we’ll just have to pay someone else to fix it.”

Come back ‘orriley men, all is forgiven.

Actually, clearing it isn’t too much of a problem.  It’s what to do with the exposed soil that’ll be left over that needs careful thought and planning.  For once, grass is not much of an option–the garden is shaded with overhanging trees and there’s no way we’re going to clear them away.  We don’t cut down trees.

So, before next Friday, when he disappears to run the bars for a big wedding, I need to back him into a corner and hold him down long enough to work out the options and commit to a plan.

Then, two or three weeks after that, he’ll be off to that bloody holiday camp for the rest of the season.  Again.

He’s been allocated a caravan once more for the duration, in a much better location than the last one, so Dolly and I shall be able to spend a couple of shortish breaks back in Somerset.  Goodness knows what Dolly will think of it.  I promised her we’d done with the darned place when we left last time.  Come to that, I promised myself much the same.

Life’s a strange, disconnected drama when you come down to it.  Thoreau had one or two one-liners that almost fit the bill.  But not quite.

I shall just have to come up with a suitable statement for myself.  All snappy and pithy in a full of pith way.