The drear mirk continues, with intermittent flashes of sun. This, combined with a rather crippling and persistent bout of insomnia, has me distinctly frayed at the edges. Life rolls on much as ever, the vicissitudes and irritations are neither better nor worse than usual, but the energy to shrug things off and scope to deflect the slings and arrows with a walk in the country or hour in the garden are much diminished. I am become prickly and brittle and it feels like my eyes have shrunken away to tiny currants. Increasingly, I suspect I may resemble an abandoned rock cake. (As it happens mum peered at me in the car this morning and declared that my face had “swollen with tiredness” – I fear the scientific basis for this is rather of a piece with the damp trousers chill on the kidney risk threatened yesterday….). Anyway, I awarded myself a day in the kitchen baking cake to restore vim and vigour and I do feel that the cake fumes have raised morale. (As the cakes are for the first of Keith’s many birthday celebrations I have eschewed tasting and therefore it has been olfactory sampling only.)
Keith’s birthday next week is the third of the latest batch. Lachlan’s 25th fell between Mum’s 80th and Keith’s 70th. Rooting around for embarrassing photos for a home made card I found this very cute one from the day he was born. Ishbel was trotted in to the delivery room to see him almost straight away and it fell upon your’s truly to explain the general scene of carnage (he was 9 pounds 6). Reader, I panicked and, thinking of the scenes at the local pond, declared the suspicious marks all over the place to be “Goosey Poo”. It seems to have done the golden boy (all the black hair fell out and came back blonde) no harm. With impeccable timing, after taking Lyra on a long riverside walk on the last sunny day, he declared that the recent naughtiness might be “under walking”. He then returned to Uni and mum and I have schlepped out on rainy route marches ever since…
A couple of days ago, when I was feeling too ropey to drive (figured my reaction time would be glacial), we tramped through the muddy stubble field up Kersfield way. Lyra was off snuffling around when we spotted three quite enormous hares just sitting having a chat. We advanced on them, assuming that either they would spot us and run off or the dog would spot them and they would run off. In fact, we were almost within decent camera range when, finally, Lyra stopped sniffing around where they had been two hours before and had her lightbulb moment. All thought of interesting nature photography had to be abandoned but we watched with much amusement, and not a little disbelief, as the three hares played ring a roses with each other all the time the dog was thundering towards them, only bolting at the last minute. As mum and I slithered up to the top of the rise they all disappeared over, I was beginning to worry that she might have caught one. Thankfully, all we encountered was a muddy dog with a “where did they go” thought bubble and, out of the far corner of our peripheral vision, six ears making for the hedge. A blink later a much smaller hare shot past, heading hedgeward. By this stage Lyra’s thought bubble was saying “enough already” and with an appropriate shtetl shrug, we soaked our way home (the level of cagoule drippage then giving rise to the aforesaid kidney chill warning….). The following day was torrential and even dog walk guilt could not drive us further than a brief spin around the cow circular, with a nod to the little white bull calf. Today, not feeling particularly dangerous, and merely knackered, we took to the riverside, splashing through the Hawkslaw rollercoaster dip on the way. The Leet burn is close to the top of its banks and we may see the Irish bridge disappear like Atlantis if this carries along much linger. Along the river proper, torrents of builder’s tea swirl around the very tops of the smaller willows, giving the swans quite a different perspective and on newly formed peninsulas the ducks and oyster catchers gather to mourn the missing beaches.
Aside from the odd spin round with a camera during a blink of sun, or at least a lessening of downpour, there’s not been much action on the garden front. I repaired to the greenhouse to sow seeds which stand no chance of imminent germination. This is a good thing as Keith’s tomatoes started to germinate in the last speck of sun and some bloody snail has munched the top off one already. I was all set to nuke the staging when we realised, some 12 months late, that the blue slug pellets that work have been banned. The rationale is sound, they are bad for wildlife, but as we only use them in the greenhouse and then only after provocation, there has been a bit of tooth gnashing. I may revert to beer traps, so the greenhouse will smell like a pub all spring…..
In other news I finished knitting a new cardi and matching top and we went to the ballet . These achievements were connected as I, somewhat unexpectedly, knitted the last bit of top on the train down and our friend Anne snipped a button from her daughter’s interview shirt so I could wear it to the cultural event. Keith is still reeling that the top counts as matching on the slim grounds of being the same colour to one of the contrasting stripes. (Eye roll) The ballet was Carmen at Sadlers Wells and it was rather good, though the female footballer and the men in black bloc rolling on the floor did give rise to a little confusion. Over too much wine and dinner we think we got to the bottom of it.
