. . . to force BT to put a landline in, since there isn’t one in this centre-of-town, eighty-year-old house with the phone jack in the kitchen.
This is so eye-wateringly insane for me as an outsider that I can only imagine
No, no, you don’t want to imagine. Really you don’t.
how you can manage to prevent yourself tearing strips off the wall and frothing at the mouth over it.
Hey, I’m not going damage my walls. But the hellhounds and I do hunt down carelessly parked BT vans and write things like BT DOES NOT RULE on the windscreen in blood-red lipstick.
What did the electricians find behind the phone jack in the kitchen?? (presuming that it is the same system there in that the phone jack has a plastic plate and socket over the hole in the wall where the wires come in to)
Oh you poor creature, hampered by rational intelligence and an assumption of logic. There has been no electrician/BT technician. They’re making all these pronouncements by reading their computer screen and making patronising noises at me down the, er, phone. If they sent a BT operative to Third House it would cost me over £100. Just to say hi and let him/her in the door. It costs extra if he/she actually looks at plate and socket . . . and I’d probably have to get a second mortgage if they took the illusory phone-jack plate off the wall and examined whatever is behind it, before declaring that it’s all a fever dream and I should try to get more sleep, sign here, the invoice will follow.
. . but eventually I managed to find the very small print in the handbook that SAYS you can’t turn the ring off the portable handset. It does not, however, tell you why.
There is a radical solution. Next time you want to turn the ringer off (like at night etc) – take the battery out of the handset….
MESS with the thing? Give it MORE EXCUSE to misbehave? And besides, dropping it on the sofa and then flattening a heavy blanket*** over its face is strangely satisfying.
Although for hysterical-making LOUDNESS, any of you have back-up batteries for your desktop computers?
Mrph. We have a whole office full of them. I have insufficient words to explain the delight of them all going off at once.
Oh . . . my. Sympathies.
… There aren’t bluebells yet, are there? My mom and I carefully planned our late April/early May England trip to try to intersect with bluebells somewhere – south or north, we’re not fussy. ::chews nails:: But we’ll be happy with whatever we get. I bet there will be, you know, flowers. Maybe even roses by then…
There will certainly be flowers. I’m interested that Rachel recommends Gloucestershire for bluebells the beginning of May, but they are that little bit more north than us—ours are mostly going over by then. But for breathtakingly fabulous spring gardens down here in the south I recommend Wisley http://www.rhs.org.uk/gardens/wisley . . . camellias . . . mmmmmm . . . camellias. And also Savill Gardens and Windsor Great Park http://www.theroyallandscape.co.uk/gardens-and-landscape/the-savill-garden which will certainly have bluebells although I’m not sure what stage of out or over they’ll be in. Unless April is 80°F all month—which I pray most earnestly it will not be—you’re unlikely to see roses yet: a few of the first species or species-type roses maybe. Oh, you may have them in London! London is crazily early—all that ambient fossil-fuel heat brings stuff on. You can get roses flowering all winter too sometimes.
But have a spectacular trip. It’s rather a nice country, England†, I’m very fond of it . . . and it’s pretty frelling amazing for gardens.
And in small personal garden news: my snakeshead fritillaries are coming out. http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/sep/07/plant-offer-snakes-head-fritillary Yaaaaaaaay. It doesn’t get much better for a fumbling amateur gardener in the south of England: now if only my mysteriously-alive meconopsises stay alive and produce flowers . . . oh yes and all my roses rush out dazzlingly. . . . It’s hard to remember sometimes that I’d only put stuff in the ground for the first time that very last summer in Maine before Peter happened. Nostalgia? Not really. I’d rather be here.
* * *
* Also, I am tired. For various reasons I’ve been in Wolfgang way too much today but I found myself in Mauncester before the bookshops closed. And as if sleepwalking I discovered I was striding through a doorway surrounded by bookshelves. I was looking for something frivolous . . . or possibly knitting. Which is, of course, not frivolous. THEIR KNITTING SECTION WAS TERRIBLE. But I was already upstairs in nonfiction so I caromed from ‘hobbies’^ to ‘music’ where I picked up, not without effort, Michael Steen’s nearly a thousand pages of LIVES AND TIMES OF THE GREAT COMPOSERS and from there, all bent over from the weight, lurched to ‘religion and philosophy’ where I picked up over a thousand pages of Diarmid MacCulloch’s A HISTORY OF CHRISTIANITY . . . for balance. I then fell downstairs, paid, and crawled out the door. GET REAL, MCKINLEY. Oh, okay . . . so I stopped at the yarn shop on my way back to the car park and bought TWO KNITTING BOOKS . . . but they were on sale.^^
. . . Also, in my defense, I’ve been listening to the MacCulloch on Pooka and really need a hard copy crib. The subtitle is ‘the first three thousand [sic] years’ and a thousand pages isn’t enough. The stuff just streams by and you’re staring either at your knitting or some assortment of hurtling hellcritter butts and thinking, What? Who? When? Where? . . . What?
^ I should have realised that any bookshop that categorizes knitting as a hobby will have no clue.
^^ I narrowly escaped buying some yarn also on sale . . . I gave up CATALOGUES+ for Lent, I didn’t give up yarn, books or sales. Maybe I need to draw the contract up more carefully next year.
+ Yes. I did this last year. I need to do it again. It’s the negotiating that’s so frelling slippery: a lot of us, myself included, live by catalogues and the internet, and if you’re buying dog food or black cotton socks or The Art of Song Grade Seven for High Voice so you can give your teacher her copy back, it’s fine and great and a time saver and all that. But browsing . . . especially because I hate paying full postage on only one item . . . which of course the evil red-eyed drooling site proprietors are counting on. The latest development, or at least I’ve only just begun seeing it, is these frelling little pop-up boxes that say, Only £1,000,000.06 more and you’ll get not only free postage but an aircraft of World War I tea towel and a stuffed penguin! —GO AWAY. . . . no, wait, I can always use another tea towel . . . STOP THAT.
*** The heavy blanket, in fact, that is still going with me to the monks’ every Saturday night. You know it’s supposed to get up to SEVENTY DEGREES [F] tomorrow? I wonder if I dare . . . noooo, the chapel will still be freezing. . . .
† Barring the politicians, the road signs, the broadband availability, and all the other usual things that are wrong with first-world countries in the twenty-first century.
So I’m cruising a gardening site because I have no self-control and they’re having a HALF PRICE sale* and I come to the description of something under the ‘cottage garden plants’ category. The heading describes it as a ‘half hardy annual’. This means it’ll die if it freezes, but it’ll be toast next winter anyway so your job is only not to plant it out too early now. And then in the description below the heading you are informed that while it is hardy to 18° F—which is pretty seriously hardy—it would be grateful for a little winter protection which if such is provided it will go on rewarding you with a dazzling floral display for years to come. Oh? Yes? Um.
It’s no wonder people think gardening is complicated and confusing.
* * *
* I didn’t tell you I ordered another eight roses, did I? Speaking of sales. Peter Frelling Beales http://www.classicroses.co.uk/ had a loooooong end-of-bareroot-season sale AND THEY KEPT FRELLING SENDING ME REMINDERS. I KNOW. I READ YOUR LAST EMAIL, THANKS. I WISH YOU’D GO AWAY. THE SALE WAS FOR FORTY PERCENT OFF. FORTY PERCENT OFF ROSE BUSHES???? YOU CAN’T EXPECT ME TO RESIST—TO GO ON RESISTING—THAT LEVEL OF TEMPTATION, CAN YOU? Well, I can’t, and it was my credit card. Besides, I have at least a half-packet of that help-the-roots-to-grow symbiotic fungus stuff left . . .
The thing is I got all those roses I bought from the (relatively) local rose nursery planted and then discovered . . . I still had perennial-shrub sized gaps left. ‘Perennial shrub’ is a slightly flexible concept in my garden, of course, as is ‘gap’: it’s surprising what (and how much) you can get to grow in a too-small pot if you keep it fed and watered. This—right now—is also the most dangerous time of year for me—I’ve probably (finally^) done a certain amount of clearing out of winter detritus: of last year’s annuals, last year’s failures, and the pruning you should maybe have done last autumn but I didn’t not only because I’m absent-minded and disorganised but because if you have a hard winter some things, including roses, will probably die back some, so if you have to take the last six inches off a three-foot stem that still leaves two and a half feet of live plant which you can prune later on if you want to for shape and so on. If you cut it down hard last autumn, six inches of dead wood may leave you come spring with three inches of live plant, which is risky. But I’m not a hard pruner anyway: I figure if a rose bush wants to be five foot—or fifteen—you’ll make it unhappy by trying to prune it to be three or six.^^
. . . Anyway.^^^ This time of year there is probably bare earth out there. Bare. Earth. In MY garden. Somewhere I could PLANT SOMETHING. Or wedge a pyramid of pots into/onto/around. This goes badly to my head. Despite the fact that by the end of March I’ve frelling DONE ALL MY SPRING ORDERING. I DON’T NEED TO DO ANY MORE. Except that what I’ve ordered is beginning to fade into the dank dark mists of the previous winter during which you wrote out copious lists of possible plant orders as a gesture of hope and belief in the future and a quelling or at least muffling of cabin fever#. And of course I never get around to printing out the invoices## of my final orders. . . . And then the frelling sale come-ons start appearing in your email. . . .
Coming up ten (gleeeeeeep) years ago, when I bought the cottage, I looked at the Way Too Gardenery a Garden that the previous owner### was leaving me and thought, I am not going to turn this into a Rose Garden. I am going to evolve it a little more toward Old Fashioned Messy Cottage Garden and away from Plantsperson’s Educational Display . . . but it’s NOT going to be a rose garden with a few pansies.
Well, it isn’t. It’s a rose garden with a few pansies, clematis, delphiniums, foxgloves, primroses, fuchsias, begonias, dahlias, hellebores, daffodils, hyacinths, a few tulips, one trillium, snowdrops, crocuses, lungwort, corydalis, epimedium, geraniums/pelargoniums/whatsit, two bleeding hearts, snapdragons, cosmos, one hydrangea, one gardenia, daylilies, irises, dianthus, dwarf Japanese maples, Japanese frelling anemones, camellias, dwarf rhododendrons, peonies . . . some other stuff, including several things I either don’t know the name of or have forgotten the name of . . . and a flowering currant, a corkscrew hazel and an apple tree.% It’s a rose garden with friends.
. . . It’s okay though. You can click on the Peter Beales link, the sale is over. I don’t recommend you sign up for their email list, however, unless you live somewhere Beales won’t ship to.
^ No, no! You’re supposed to leave your rubbish alone over the winter! It gives WILDLIFE SHELTER AND FOOD! ‘Wildlife’ includes the frelling mice I yesterday animadverted, as well as slugs, snails, vine weevils, lily beetles and black spot fungal spores. And my incredibly spoilt local bird populations don’t eat seed heads or berries or rose hips. And the bats are hibernating.
^^ There are fashions in pruning as in most things. Some years I’m in fashion. Some years I’m not in fashion. Feh.
^^^ Buckminster, our vicar, gets quite a lot of stick for being easily distracted. Church services when our vicar is preaching+ have been known to run on quite a while over time because Buck has been chasing hares (again). I was thinking this Sunday while everyone was giggling that it’s a good thing no one at St Margaret’s—so far as I know—reads Robin McKinley’s Days in the Life.++ Especially Buck himself. It might give him ideas.
+ You want to get home on time, pray Buck is not preaching.
++ With footnotes.
# Yes, you can get a cabin-fever equivalent even in the south of England, although in my case anyway the lack of daylight is almost as claustrophobi-fying as not being able to get out the door because of the snowdrifts.+ This winter, of course, the solid wall of falling water that went on for about three months accentuated that shut-in feeling.
+ Pay the guy with the bulldozer scoop on the front of his muscle pick-up who clears your driveway for you promptly. Never mess with a guy with a bulldozer scoop on the front of his muscle pick-up, especially not in a winter with a lot of snow.
## I’d only lose them. So why bother.
### Trained horticulturists. Double feh.
% And I’m TRYING AGAIN with the witchhazel and the magnolia stellata, drat them anyway. And does anyone know how to get a frelling foxtail lily to FLOWER? The beastly thing is coming up for the third year in a row but I’ve yet to get a flower out of it. But three of my meconopsis are alive. YAAAAAAAY.
I took the hellhounds to Mauncester with us this morning* because the only errands I needed to run were to hellhound-friendly shops where they are much admired**. I won’t say we had a good hurtle. We had, by hellhound standards, a fabulous dawdle. There are clearly too many dogs in Mauncester and EVERY FRELLING BRICK IS WORTHY OF INTENSE CANINE SCRUTINY. EVERY SAPLING, EVERY GATEPOST, EVERY DUST MOTE. ARRRRRRGH. I WANT A HURTLE. I’d settle for, you know, a walk.
Anyway. We got home to the mews finally to a hellterror hanging from the ceiling of her crate*** like a square furry Dracula so, since the hellhounds were sated, I hurtled her back to the cottage because I wanted to get the indoor jungle outdoors for a few hours.† It’s the hellhounds who usually go back to the cottage with me, both because the Off Lead Dog problem is least diabolical if you stick to the middle of town†† and also because hellhounds will GO LIE DOWN when so instructed and not follow me around and attempt to HELP when I’m trying to do things like ferry the indoor jungle outside, repot the frelling dahlia that is insisting on growing and start another load of washing. Here, take this geranium and put it on the second step, okay? And could you bring me a fresh bag of Perlite please? AND STOP STEALING SOCKS.
It seemed unkind, she was so relishing being part of the action†††, to lock her up so I could mop the frelling cottage floor before we returned to the mews for lunch. So I have that to look forward to as soon as I post here and go back to the cottage. IT COULD JUST STOP RAINING SO MY BACK GARDEN AND THE ENTIRE SOUTH OF ENGLAND IS NOT A MUD BATH. . . . And is inevitably (and squishily) tracked across a lot of kitchen floors.
* * *
* Morning! Yes, morning! You know, that thing that happens before noon and after the wee hours and, um, dawn, which this time of year happens even later than I want to stay up for.^ I admit there wasn’t a lot of morning left by the time I picked Peter up BUT IT WAS STILL MORNING.
^ Except after a Street Pastors night when I’m not sure but what dawn serves to remind me that the ordinary world is still there. Maxine and I were talking about this last night while the long-timers were out of earshot: here we are about to go descend on some innocent congregation and hold a Street Pastors pep rally+ and we’re still really both in the Early Gobsmacked stage. We’re what? We’re doing what? If you stop to think/worry about it, all it is, practically speaking, is handing out lollipops and flipflops and hot chocolate—okay, and listening—but it is another world where we’re doing it++ and by putting on your logo—your God-armour—you’re kind of taking leave of this world before you enter that other one.+++ You need new skills—new ways to connect—and neither Maxine nor I really feel we’re getting much of a grip on this. On New Year’s Eve she was watching Jonas engage with our target group the way I was watching Dominic—she was in one team and I was in the other—and thinking how does he do that?! But Jonas and Dom have been doing this for three years and Maxine and I have been doing it for three months.#
+ Give me an S! Give me a T! —Pompoms optional and it’s been a lot of years since I did the splits.
++ ‘The nighttime economy’
+++ Of course all us practising Christians move serenely and gracefully through the ordinary world in perfect awareness of God at all times. Of course. There is never any bad language or any screaming or any dirty dishes in the sink. And all our tulips are planted by the end of November. This is why I turned Christian, you know? Because I wanted to get all my tulips in by the end of November. Ahem.
#Although the fact that I immediately manifested an entirely alien ability to catch strangers’ eyes, smile and say hello proves that the Holy Spirit has a foot in my door. This made Maxine laugh, but then she has a normal job and deals with the public and has colleagues and so on.
** And no one says anything to me about the number of ribs on dramatic show. In some cases because these are fellow sighthound people and they know. As I was moaning to one woman (who has a Labrador/spaniel cross and a pointer puppy but her sister has skinny greyhounds) if the hellhounds were working lurchers in hard condition the ribs wouldn’t matter. Pet dogs just look malnourished with their ribs sticking out.^
^ Note that they have eaten dinner. We say nothing of supper to come. Or what kind of a mood I’ll be in by the time I go to bed.+
+ SERENE of course. PERFECTLY BALANCED in my awareness of God.~
*** She totally has prehensile paws. I’ve told you about her putting her forelegs around your waist to hug you. The current ritual is that last thing at night before I put her finally in her crate with more fooooooood she has a lap for as much time as I think I can get away with for random reading. The moment I put my book down in preparation for putting her down, she sits up, wraps her forelegs around my neck . . . and chews my face off. This tickles something crazy. She makes ridiculous noises while she is performing this liturgy and it is a good idea if I’ve got my earrings and my glasses off first.
† Hard frost last night, and the January sun has no strength to it so it takes forever to warm up in the morning. In the MOOOOOORNING.
†† It’s not undiabolical, it’s just least.
††† BOING BOING BOING
I AM SO TIRED OF WATERING. TIRED. WATERING. OF. ARRRRRRRRGH. We were supposed to have thunderstorms over the weekend. We were supposed to have TORRENTIAL RAIN! We were supposed to have sporadic downpours, some of them heavy, today!
WE HAVE HAD NONE OF THESE THINGS. We had two minor bursts of real rain which according to my rain gauge total a little under a quarter inch. This is not entirely negligible . . . but NEARLY. I heard some distant thunder while I was at the monks’ Saturday evening. Nothing else happened. And we do really, really, really need rain—anything that isn’t a garden tended by a (possibly) obsessive and irascible gardener is brown. I HATE WATERING. WATERING ISN’T GARDENING. WATERING IS A BORING BORING BOOOOOOOORING TIME SUCK. And while you’re wasting all your gardening time lugging cans of water* around the jungle that you had so laboriously somewhat brought under control is rioting freely again.
Snarl. I took advantage of a rose sale last winter. I wrote all over my order NO SUBSTITUTIONS. They sent me a sub anyway**. This one. Grrrrrrr. So, okay, climbing pink rose. I’ll live.
I do splash some water around and there’s a little trash soil from crumbling mortar and what falls out of my pots, but they’re basically growing out of ROCK.
And they’re all frelling thriving, in their miniature way. Ordinary garden snapdragons, which are a lot bigger of course, are also thirsty. Geraniums will put up with a surprising amount of drought: snapdragons won’t. First they wilt and then they develop mildew. And this year’s astonishing crop of volunteers must be all garden offspring, and first generation so far as I know, unless snapdragon seed lies in the ground/mortar/flint shelf until suitable conditions occur, like decades-old poppies waiting for the plough.
It’s certainly enough to make you a really untidy gardener for the rest of your (gardening) life. Especially if you’re that way inclined anyway. But this one is clinging to the few grains of soil in the unswept-out whorl of the rubber stair treads.
But I’m not exactly wasting my time with all that dratblasted watering, am I?
* * *
* The problems of Hosepipe Management in something the size and intensity of planting of the cottage garden are debatably worse than just gritting my teeth and bowing to the inevitability of can haulage.^ I do use a sprinkler occasionally but by the time I’m thinking about it we’re probably into drought conditions and it feels illegal even if it isn’t.
^ I can do a fair amount of damage with my big feet when I stagger in the wrong direction, but on the whole I leave fewer swathes of destruction carrying watering-cans than when I’m trying to cope with a frelling+ hose. Also with a dingleframping++ hellterror about the place you have to roll and/or hoick the thing out of reach every time you’re finished using it or at least before the hellterror is loose again.
+ Didn’t some polite newcomer on the forum recently ask where ‘frelling’ came from, that she’d used it in company and got stared at? RAISE YOUR CHIN AND TELL THEM IT’S A PERFECTLY LEGITIMATE COINAGE FROM FARSCAPE. You can google it. And I should pick up ‘dren’ while I’m at it.
++ And sometimes, when I’m feeling somewhat pent and fraught I just make something up. The presence of a hellterror can make one feel pent and fraught rather easily. Ask Darkness.
** When I protested they told me I could send it back. Uh huh. Sure. That’s totally practical.
It’s been an unnecessarily insane couple of days AND IN THIS FRELLING HEAT. I do not do heat. Heat makes me STUPID.* Heat also makes planning and schedules and stuff so dratblasted difficult—because we’re not used to it, here in England. We’re used to being out in the middle of the day. We’re used to the afternoon being an appropriate time for doing things other than staying indoors with the curtains drawn and moaning weakly. I know hot countries figure this out but historically this is not a hot country.** And I personally don’t have any hot-country genes.*** I’m Scandinavian, Inuit and polar bear, mostly.†
And of course as previously observed, there is precious little air-conditioning anywhere on this ruddy island. TELL YOURSELF AIR-CON IS BAD FOR THE PLANET. KEEP TELLING YOURSELF THAT.
Yesterday in a wealthy high-Tory town not far from here they were opening ten private gardens that are never open to the public for some specific charity that one (wincingly) assumes has a particular meaning for some one of those families, and I hope they took in thousands. Hellhounds and I have hurtled down their main street any number of times and in my case peered through gates and wondered what was back there. Peter and I were going to this garden-open day and Nina was coming too. I had frelling afternoon service ring at Forza to squeeze in so we decided to go early—which meant I had to get out of bed,†† absorb caffeine, hurtle critters and do some frelling watering since the local plant life isn’t any more used to HEAT than we are and tends to die in about six hours if you don’t, first.
So I was late, of course. I got there as Peter and Nina were coming out of their third garden—and Peter’s back was giving out. Nina, gallant woman, took him home while I caught up on the gardens, and then Nina and I finished going round together. Some of those gardens are AMAZING. A M A Z I N G. We parted making ‘amazing’ noises at each other—and I informed Peter that I was going to loop past on my way home from ringing at the abbey and take him back to garden-open day and therefore he was to be prepared. No, no, it’s not necessary, he said. I didn’t say anything about necessary, I said: I said, have your shoes on. We’ll have nearly an hour if I don’t hang about after ringing, and I’ll only make you go to the amazing ones.
There were six of us at Forza. Six is the minimum. If you’re a major historical landmark possessing ninety-seven bells, you don’t ring uncovered doubles (five bells) or minimus (four bells). If there aren’t six of you, you go home.
Have I mentioned the ‘no discernible sleep since this frelling heat offensive began’? I did very well. I whinge a lot about how few methods I can ring for the unblessed number of years I’ve been doing it, but this does mean I’ve had the time to develop automatic pilot for the methods I can ring . . . it’s nothing like perfectly reliable†††, but it can get me through rings like yesterday’s, when the air in the ringing chamber is so heavy it’s hard to poke your arms up through it to grab your rope and everything sounds strangely muffled because the air is much too heavy to, you know, vibrate. And you’ve had no sleep.
Then I pelted home, stuffed Peter protesting in the passenger seat, and we went back to the gardens-open town. And Peter agreed that the gardens I was prodding, not to say frog-marching, him to were pretty amazing. Marital harmony restored.
Then I had to race home, get hellcritters out, finish the bloody watering,‡ and . . . go to church.‡‡
Today I had to do more watering, not least because I’d slightly skimped yesterday‡‡‡. I was late to my voice lesson when I realised I’d missed the washing machine man and had to rend my garments§ and then ring up and grovel so he’d rebook me.§§
My voice lesson . . . we’re into some interesting territory. I’ve made a kind of frustrating breakthrough in that I’ve pretty suddenly become much more aware of my tension level§§§ but appear to be as unable to do anything about it as I ever have—although I did have one day this week when it was like I could sing anything. Where did THAT come from? I have no idea. And it went away again, of course. Nadia says it came from all these frelling exercises I’m doing even when they don’t seem to be doing anything and to keep doing them and I’ll start having more free days. Nadia winkled me into making a noise that she said was the sort of noise that if I were a member of an eight-soprano choir they’d miss me if I weren’t there.# That’s the goal, I said. And then I butchered poor old Linden Lea arrrrrrrgh.
I came home again and spent a good half-hour on the floor of the kitchen at the cottage–it was still too hot for hurtling–using the slightly dampening effect of the HEAT to help persuade the hellterror that if she wants to hang out with the hellhounds and me she has to be calm and quiet.
And it was about at this point that I remembered that I’d promised Niall that I’d ring at Old Eden tonight. . . . ##
May I sit down now?
* * *
* I missed THE WASHING MACHINE REPAIR MAN TODAY!!! How tragic is that??
** Ask us in a decade.
*** Buckminster, the vicar at St Margaret’s, was loathsomely jolly and bouncy last night, talking about how much he loooooves the heat. He’s been out chopping things down in the garden and feeling holy and connected to life and nature while his family were all indoors watching a film. What’s the film? Do you have room for one more?
† I got my temper from the polar bear. You may have guessed.
†† The getting out of bed part is not really the issue. It’s not like you’re enjoying having a hot mattress pressed against one entire side of your body. It’s the moving at all aspect when you have had no discernible sleep in several days that is the problem.
‡ The gardens we were looking at had staff, irrigation systems, or both.
‡‡ And be bounced at by my frelling vicar.
‡‡‡ This is more of the flapdoodle about planning. The back garden is a barbeque pit in the afternoon, so I need to get the watering done in the morning. The house shadow falls over the front in the afternoon, so I tend to do the front watering then, except that I have to hit a few of the pots that won’t last all day both morning and afternoon/evening, and the front is more sensitive generally because it’s road and house walls, not dirt and gravel and lots more plants.
§ I’m not wearing enough garments for really top-flight rending, so I had to supplement out of a drawer.
§§ Wednesday. DON’T LET ME FORGET.
§§§ Singing is FREE! Nadia says. You can be a stressed-out control freak in the rest of your life! Singing is FREE!
# In a good way, okay?
## Old Eden practises tend to be heavy on the beginner end, and to need the ballast of even dweeb-level ringers like me who can ring Grandsire doubles in their sleep. The situation tonight was so pathetic I was even doing some minding.