I had a restless night. Better than some I suppose, but
could have been better. Part of the trouble is waking at three o’clock
desperate for the loo and knowing full well that if I get up I will have a
full-blown battle to reclaim any bed space when I come back. I should take the
line that it would hurt less if I went for a tiddle, but I rarely do.
I eventually got up at half past seven and made toast.
That’s not so easy at the moment. A week or so ago I bought butter rather than
margarine. It’s not at all easy to spread when cold (i.e. impossible) so
we put it on a butter dish. Have you ever tried to use one of those things?
They are crap. The knife just chases the butter all over the dish without
actually taking anything prisoner.
I eventually settled down for my morning’s rummage round
the Internet. This morning’s petty squabble on Facebook was on one of the pond
groups. You can chuck a bag of salad watercress in your pond and it will grow
impressively. I’ve done that. Someone was advocating against it because you
don’t know what dangerous chemicals might be in the watercress… this coming
from a Facebook page advocating chucking every chemical known to science into
your pond in order to correct the levels of chemicals that you don’t
understand.
I got the dogs onto their leads and took four of them (Pogo
had been for a sleepover) to the woods. As we drove the pundits on the
radio were talking about how lots of people are now putting what might have
been TV shows onto YouTube. Apparently production costs are far cheaper and
there’s no farting about with scheduling; the punters just watch it when they
like.
We got to the woods and walked what is becoming our new
standard walk of four and a quarter miles. In the week since we were last there
the bluebells have blossomed and the leaves have all appeared on the trees.
Spring has definitely sprung.
We walked for over an hour and as usual hardly saw anyone.
We had a minor episode when Morgan sniffed another dog’s bum, and the woman
with the dog had a full-blown panic attack. What was that all about?
We came home. I hung out the washing I’d put in earlier, then
loaded the car with a job lot of rubbish for the tip, then harvested dog dung. Then
I went round with the strimmer and lawn mower, before bionically burning the
weeds on the patio.
“er indoors TM” went off for
lunch with her mates. I got out the garden scissors and trimmed round the
stepping stones. How I never took Pogo’s nose off is a mystery; he wouldn’t
leave me alone and wanted to know what I was doing with every chop I took.
“Daddies’ Little Angel TM” arrived to
collect Pogo. She needed a lift home, but wasn’t happy about going via the tip.
Eventually I told her that the car was going to the tip, and if she wasn’t in
it, she could walk to Folkestone. She came to the tip.
As we drove down the motorway she was interested in a track
on my MP3 player. “Thank God Its Not
Christmas” by Sergent Thunderhoof is a rather good cover
of an old Sparks song. I was rather amazed she liked it.
Once I’d dropped her off the plan was to get a replacement
light bulb for the one in the lobby that popped, and to get a couple of small
planters and some more alpine plants to put in them. I completely forgot about
that, and only remembered as I scoffed my lunch of a lemon curd bun (two
hundred and fifty calories) and a cuppa before spending a couple of hours
sorting out the ironing.
The undercrackers have all been washed and are currently in
the tumble-drier. I’m going to work tomorrow for a rest…
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