Hello Blog, I have missed you. The brain's not been up to blogging over the last couple of days. Must have been Doctor Findlay (psychiatrist and, no, I'm not deluding, that's really his name) and his mind-matters tiring me somewhat. Today should've been the day for the great barn handover but sadly it's not. We were rather sceptical when Steve and Phil said it would definitely be today. There's still a fair bit to do but the end is in sight and it's still ahead of the original schedule. Talking of sceptics takes me round the u-bend to septic. Tanks, that is, where we'll bung the dung. The type we've chosen is known as an onion. It's about 8 feet tall and needs to be buried in a deep, deep hole so the Terrys have been busy digging, planting the onion, then filling it up (the hole, not the onion....)
This dunghole creation hasn't been created without casualties, with more than one treasured piece of flora being uprooted for the cause.
Spring onions now reside in the vegetable patch where the more established incumbents are now presenting arms like a Sandhurst parade. It's my pride and joy, my refuge, my safe place (Dr Findlay says I need a "safe place"). Fifi Babitt can't quite get as excited about it as I do but she'll learn. One day.
Maybe.
Maybe.
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There are times I put on my wireless headphones and go down the garden.
BEGINNERS
Starry-eyed, she'd rather
walk through the lights,
throw caution to the winds and
saunter onto the drafty stage.
She can't take this trick with her.
It's pure Northern brass.
You'll remember such class:
clash of cymbals,
fishnet tights.
Then the dreamy frontman gives the introduction.
You can't manage this, and this -- or her --
but here she is for you.
All day and everyday.
Shocking and knocking virtue.
Can't find it now.
Tearing the directory.
Arguing with the fairy.
An episode of Clockwork Orange gone wrong.
Patches hold together her song.
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