So I got up* at the crack of dawn today (well, eight o’clock. Nearly the crack of dawn) to get everyone to the train station and it is a very very amazingly very glorious day here and by the time I got back to cottage and hellhounds after this total break with any of my normal morning schedules** I had already decided to play hooky from work*** in a shameless fashion. Although, shame, pfft. In a climate like this one I feel no† shame whatsoever about letting the garden wipe the lot on a day like today.††
So I went up to Third House and planted a rose.††† While hellhounds rioted and biffed me over the head occasionally with a dog toy.‡ And the rose I planted is Bonica.
I had Bonica at the old house. She was six feet square and solid pink at midsummer and again in late August, and in between and a bit on either side she was only about three-quarters pink. Her flowers are smallish and shallow-cup-shaped and perfectly pleasant but nothing special, but a big bush of her in full spate is thrilling. I want her again. And I’ve got her in a very eye-catching place at Third House: as you walk toward the gate into the back garden with the house wall on one side and the shed/coughcoughsummerhouse wall on the other an explosion of pink will be just tickling the edge of your frame of vision. . . .
I also have about a million photos of Bonica. And I had a kind of passing thought that if I’d struggled with the photo-loading widgetry already, whatever Cormac tells me might, you know, stick better. There’s very little worse than the guy in the shop saying, oh yes, it works like this, click click click click click, and it does, and then you go home and it doesn’t. Of course I couldn’t find the photo I wanted–I wanted one of the six-foot-square-and-solid-pink ones–but this one has an artistically arranged butterfly which counts for something. What counts for even more of course is that I got the sucker loaded.‡‡
So: meet Bonica. In full colour. Can hellhounds be far behind?‡‡‡
*Yesterday Hannah set her Boysenberry to wake her so they could head off early to Bath, because Boysenberries have an alarm function like they have everything, and while I offered her an alarm clock, she had had experience of my chronometric devices last October, and declined. And the Boysenberry dutifully went off at 7:30 a.m. . . . Eastern Standard Time. Well, better than having your Boysenberry go off at 7:30 a.m. Greenwich Mean time while you’re in Manhattan. I have a very downmarket gizmo, it doesn’t even have a fubsy, I mean quaint and charming, name, but it works fine, except for the bits I don’t understand, which may work fine also, but don’t ask me. I have no idea if it has an Alarming Feature or not. I randomly set a few clock-like objects last night but helpfully woke up about ten minutes before any of them was due to go off, thus eluding having to find out if they were going to.
** Efficient, inefficient, muddled, distracted, walking hellhounds first, walking hellhounds after the caffeine has had a chance to kick in, checking emails for film option offers of $/£^1,000,000,000 for McKinley novels^^, checking the clouds for imminent kumquat-sized hail^^^, sweeping the floor for the first half-full dustpan of hellhound hair of the day, and variations on all these themes with the exception of the first which is only there for politeness’ sake.
^ I’m not fussy, if there are lots of zeroes following closely
^^ This is a very short item. Possibly even a sub item
^^^ A rather longer item, involving much muttering and hissing through teeth
*** Generally speaking I’m so extravagantly appreciative of being free lance that things like paid holidays^ and being able to leave the office and close the door^^ behind you at night barely register. But I had a cup of tea with a friend this afternoon who said she doesn’t have to do taxes at all, her job does it all automatically. She just has a piece of paper to sign at the end of the year or something. I was comatose from shock and blind brutal covetousness for a good half hour after she left. I’m still feeling a little mushy around the edges, but that may be the ME.
^ Why should I care? I haven’t taken a holiday in years
^^ I don’t even have the door. It took up too much space so The Man took it off its hinges and it’s out in the garage. I would never have closed it anyway; I’d be too worried about What Things Were Getting Up To Back There.
†† It was a positive pleasure to pot on dahlia cuttings and nicotiana plugs back at the cottage. The problem is where I put my feet when I stand up again, now surrounded by little foot-tripper ankle-breaker pots–of course I don’t have a potting table, don’t be daft, I do it kneeling [sic] on the hellhound-free edge of the little gravelled courtyard^. Nor, once I’m standing (or not), do I have anywhere to line all the little obstructions to passage out.
^ Just outside the hellhound-retaining fence, usually with hellhounds straining their suddenly giraffe-length necks over said fence to inquire into my curious activity.
††† Slowly. Sigh. The ME is ebbing but it is in no hurry.
‡ Do that again and I’ll take it away from you. Biff. Of course they understand English.
‡‡ Um. I think. Waiting upon confirmation from you guys.
‡‡‡ I’m not sure all this success is a good thing. I’ll run out of excuses.
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