The thermometer says one season, the leaves say another.
In the Indian summer I have hacked out shrubs, lifted slabs and relaid them,
heaved up ancient anti-weed fabric (lavishly festooned with ingrown weeds)
and dug … and dug … and dug … while dripping saltily into the soil.
This didn’t leave much energy so I took refuge with the easy readers. Walsh’s impersonation of Sayers was vaguely readable but uneasy, as if she was chaining herself to the external patterns of language without the inner life. It made me think of someone trying to dress herself in items from a wardrobe bought by a taller person with a different colouring.
Everest 1953 doesn’t have the scope or depth of research which Wade Davis brought to Into the silence, and it certainly doesn’t have the maps (black mark) but it was a pleasant overview of the expedition and brought out the characters of Eric Shipton and John Hunt as well as Hillary and Tenzing.
In slightly more conscious moments I sewed up terracotta and cabled cream.