A small stack of post-it notes emerged from a heap of random paperwork.
The first said:
The second said:
The third said:
The set must have meant something once.
one instalment of an indefinite journey. On this basis it could be a long one.
I looked on Wikipedia, but, although discoursing on their evolution, flight, reproductive habits etc., the article was obstinately silent about flavour.
Which left me with a question about the elderflowers: to wash, or not to wash? The former removes the pale pollen as well as a good many flies; the latter will keep the pollen, but also more animals will be retained, infusing their possibly noxious juice when I pour the hot syrup over. Ummm.
greenhouse audit. Must have been breeding all winter.
An incoherent day.
Small steps; they look alike until they are all over the wall, and then it’s too late. Test pots good (get the dinky little rollers which – amazingly – actually work).
Sibirica; sometimes only for a single day before they go over.
Charity shop: supposedly 3D, but looking at the individual pieces with their shifting colour makes your eyes go googly. And disassembly is a pig, as the pieces jam together, making the image-bearing plastic delaminate from the cardboard substrate. Really glad it was a Bargain.
The image is fraudulent. 1) the clear soil denies certain thickets of roots that are impossible to excavate. Some of them are from the hydrangea petiolaris on the fence, but roots of nettle and bramble and bindweed are woven inextricably among. 2) what appears to be tilth is a thin skim of spent compost raked over the horrible clay lumps, gravel and fragments of concrete that pass for earth. 3) the slant of sunshine disguises that this is north-facing. 4) the fences shelter from wind, but also from rain, and this is dry – all the way to the bottom.
The petiolaris, God bless it, copes with anything, and can be left to get on. As for the new border “soil”, in such adverse conditions it is a question of throwing in everything you’ve got, and seeing what survives.
Bother Oxford, I thought sniffily, going out as the rain slowed. So I turned left, interested by the curious mixture of pretension and seediness that characterised the area. (Click an image for the gallery)
Today I travelled home. Someone burned the toast at Oxford station and we evacuated, but luckily that was the only drama.
… usually a good thing, and enables one to take an upstairs seat on the bus. On this occasion I may have overdone the exiguity.
Perhaps there are socks in the venerable city of Oxford?
The blackbirds love me. Sorting out a hundred little plant pots is bunce for them. Not so for the toad hiding in one of them whose otherwise defunct contents I flicked into the garden.* Bit of a surprise to both of us.
Knitting in your sleep is all very well so long as you don’t start knitting to a previous similar pattern instead of the current one.
Undoing the section wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t for the cabling. Taking the whole jumper back would have been even slower and nearly as difficult.
The tension in panel C is a bit wrecked …
* No toads were harmed in the making of this post.