A medium-slow Sunday
I rang a touch of Stedman doubles at service ring this morning*, I’ve got another page or two of PEG II sucked out of the void and more or less safely into this world, and Chaos is crapping solid.** And I need a night off. I’ve already wasted most of it reading plant catalogues.***
So† I’m going to leave you with a couple of photos of a fabulous object I found parked in front of Ditherington’s 
infant school a few weeks back, for the little darlings to lay in their supply of holiday reading, I daresay, so they don’t waste all of it on ponies and tennis. And whatever else infants do these days. It’s the ponies and the tennis that hurtling hellhounds and I see.
* * *
* Although I frelling muffed calling my teeny feeble-minded touch of plain bob doubles ARRRRRRGH I am too stupid to live, especially on Sunday mornings. As everyone said soothingly afterward, you just wanted to ring a longer touch, right?^ Very sensible on a Sunday morning: gives a nice feeling of continuity.
But I did permit myself a certain faint warm glow of satisfaction about the Stedman doubles^^. If I hadn’t been there they couldn’t have rung it.
^ If you miss a call, unless you’re clever, which I have already proved I’m not, you basically have to start all over again.
^^ Not least because of the inherent feeble-mindedness of Sunday mornings.
** He’s obviously feeling better generally. He has been a total pain in the, you should forgive the term, butt, all day.
*** And ordering stuff. You don’t really think I can read plant catalogues without ordering stuff, do you?
Furthermore I’m all primed for acquisition because current stuff is closing down, for the year or for good. I had most of my sweet peas out today, and the first very draggled petunias. Sigh. Summer is over. I’m also having horrible dire thoughts that I may have to grow my own sweet peas to get what I want—I mean from seed. I don’t do seeds. Way too fiddly. And I take it personally when they die. Bulbs are my limit in the nurturing-from-infancy department. Yerk. Note to self: time to lay in lots of netting. I’m going to try tying the wretched stuff over my pots this year to keep the frelling mice from catering spring-bulb banquets for their friends and relations. Burying your netting works fine, but you hate yourself in the spring when you have to lever it all off again . . . and gods help you and your tulips if you forget. If you’re ever tempted to bury netting over your bulbs—and, as I say, it does work—I recommend that, with your netting, you purchase a pair of teeny-weeny sewing scissors—and I mean teeny weeny: the ones whose tips vanish with tininess. You’ll need them for rescuing tulip noses that are now fatter than the gaps in the netting that they’re boring through. Unless you are a fabulously organised and methodical person, in which case please go away, there’s nothing in this blog for you.
Maybe I’d better stick to unsatisfactory commercially-grown sweet peas.
^ I forget on average one tucked-away-in-a-corner pot per year. But sometimes it’s a big pot.
† Barring all the footnotes that just seem to proliferate without any intervention from me at all.
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