I am still stuck in the leg brace. One might have thought that forced inactivity would have driven me to the keyboard, blogs to write, emails waiting attention and so on but no, somehow the one thing I could easily do has offered the least attraction. Over the last couple of weeks I have:
- finally finished Keith’s dashing regency blade jumper, sweltering mightily in the heat under the woolly panels;
- ploughed through a series of New Scientist articles on the topic of “Nothing”
- performed a bird rescue (see below);
- developed a stealth one legged weeding action when Keith is not looking;
- produced a Victoria sponge every other day (the “by appointment visitors have been trickling in steadily);
- invented a new baked breakfast roll thing with a pleasing cheese volcano centre (I will make another batch and weight the ingredients this time and upload when I have a moment); and
- hobbled incessantly round the garden getting in the way of everyone else’s efforts.
Thankfully though, I think the end is now in sight. Mobility beckons. I am off to the hospital in the car this afternoon to take mum to see Dad. (The boot of shame will be travelling with us in the back seat to be donned for stair climbing purposes).
Out in the garden the lupins and peonies are centre stage, with the roses coming through strongly. It will be tart’s boudoir season again in my garret shortly as the dead headed petals are brought in to dry. It has been exceptionally dry so the earth is like concrete and my annuals are having to be chiselled in during my sneaky guerrilla gardener moments. The water lilies are having a particularly good year. The unopened buds look like shoals of curious fishes peering out first thing in the morning. The ponds are very much a hub of activity at the moment. Argon blue damselfly are absorbed in aerial pas de deux and the miasma of tiny flies are attracting regular swoops from the swallows and house martins. This morning I spotted my first tiny frogs of the season. They were hopping in and out of the iris like animated sultanas. Clearly the newts did not scoff them all. Passing the front rose bed on one of my one legged forays earlier in the week I came across a grounded house martin. Its wings had become glued together at the tips with baby bird poo and it couldn’t seem to get free. Dr Fountain picked it off and the patient flew off, looking much happier in the air than down amongst the roses. I hobbled off feeling not a little envious.
Live from Ruthven 