I slept well. As always I peered into the Internet as
I scoffed toast this morning. A few Facebook friends were having a birthday
today so I sent out wishes. One of my mates having a birthday was an old school
friend. We went to Boys Brigade together where he fell for all the religious
indoctrination and he’s now a mad-keen Baptist minister in the West Country.
Periodically we exchange messages; he seems quite happy, but I do feel a sense
of guilt about how he’s ended up.
Quite a few people were ranting about Donald Trump as
well. Mr Trump met with the Ukrainian President yesterday and the meeting didn’t go well.
I can’t help but feel that Mr. Trump didn’t say
anything that really didn’t need saying. The trouble is that opinion about him
is so polarised that he was totally the wrong person to say it. I’ve mentioned
before about how ungrateful the Ukrainian president has been ever since the
start of the war, and yesterday he was told some home truths. There’s an old
proverb about not biting the hand that feeds you; it is rather apposite here.
Mr Zelensky should really have done his homework, seen what he would be dealing
with, gone along and sucked up. That would have worked in his favour.
I munzed and wordled, then went round to Dog Club. I
was rather miffed to find that the poo bag from last week was still hanging on
the fence from where I had tied it last week. The arrangement has always been
that I open up and put up the poo bag. I leave the gate unlocked and the poo
bag in place for the later groups and someone else locks up and takes the poo
to the bin. It turned out that the lady who usually shifted the dung wasn’t
along last week, and no one else could be bothered. Presumably someone locked
up? I hope so.
But we had a rather good session; I counted twenty-two
dogs at one point. Treacle was grumpy; Treacle often is. Morgan wasn’t happy
though. With “er indoors TM” at craft club, Morgan
spent the first half of the session watching the gate and crying.
As we drove home I caught the end of the Mystery Year
competition on the radio. “Birdhouse in your Soul” by “They Might Be
Giants”. I thought it was 1989. I was one year out. And then the news came
on saying how President Zelensky has made all sorts of public announcements of
gratitude to the people of America. Perhaps he’s listened?
Once home I made a cuppa and counted up the Dog Club
money, pocketed the cash and transferred fifty quid to the Repton people’s bank
account. I’ve now got another pocket of change.
I hoovered. As I hoovered so not-so-nice-next-door
came out to her car which was parked outside. There were cars parked rather
close in front and behind of it. She glared at them, glared at me (as though
I was somehow responsible) and went back inside; not even attempting to
move the car.
I then had a minor pootle round the garden. My peonie
has croaked, and one of the large ceramic pots has started crumbling.
“er indoors TM” came
home and sorted us a spot of lunch, then we had a little look round the garden
centres. The idea was to get some replacement large pots. Ideally a square one
as that would fit the space of the broken one better.
I saw exactly what I needed in Bybrook Barn, but they
weren’t giving them away so we thought we’d try the little flowerpot-selling
place in Challock that was closed. Had we known that they were closed we
wouldn’t have tried there. Dobbies had much the same as Bybrook Barn, but were
charging more, and Ham Street garden centre didn’t really have much at all.
We came home, had a cuppa, and I went on Amazon and
ordered some planters for half the price of the cheapest garden centre.
I then had a think about the Munzee map. You can munz
a physical Munzee if it is within three hundred feet of you. So I had a look at
the map, found two more places up the alley round the back of the houses over
the road where I might stick a Munzee, and then created a PDF with piccies of
all of them.
“er indoors TM” boiled
a rather good bit of dinner which went down with a bottle of the red stuff as
we watched more episodes of “The Traitors US” in which the traitors were
at each other’s throats, and sadly her with the chest got the heave-ho.
Not the decision I might have made…
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