It is MOT day today so I wake at half hourly intervals between five and seven to make sure I can drop the Mini off by eight. I am a country mouse these days. On early mornings I nod to the cows and, if they look undecided about standing up, inspect the hills for rain. The dog and I potter in companionable silence and barely a word might be spoken until Himself barrels through the kitchen on the way to the gym. It is, therefore, strangely fascinating to find myself suddenly in a hive of activity as I head into town early.
All the way down the hill I am playing the dashing white sergeant with farm machinery heading north, jinking to the left and saluting to the right as we carefully manoeuvre past one another. The lad driving the massive crop sprayer shows the fanciest footwork and gets a cheery wave. At the town limits waves of dog walkers emerge. A lady in a red anorak trails a link of three sausage dogs past a curious Alsatian and earns a walking stick salute from its owner. Round the corner there is a murder of schoolgirls at the bus stop. The fledgelings hop around, waggling their tail feathers and beating their wings as they caw out the copious gossip that has amassed since the 4 o’ clock bus yesterday. Their elders stand aloof, each perched on one skinny black leg, head on one side, pecking at their phones. At the turning for the garage a flotilla of vans sails past. The painters’ are pristine white and topped with ladders. The electrician’s a nippy little number in bright blue. Last of all, spluttering and coughing, comes Robbie the tiler. His pretty, seraglio patterned, van has, according to Bobby senior, already been given the last rights. They all sail on down the hill, turning towards the high street where they will jostle for a mooring outside the bakers and take on rolls and pies as ballast.
My trusty chariot is handed over and, in funereal tones, I am advised not to pin my hopes on a speedy return as they are “inundated”. I have been forewarned and my plans are made so I smile and walk out to meet my trusty chauffeur who drops me off for early Pilates after a pit stop for coffee and toast. By eleven I am back home, stretched and strengthened. The sun is shining. With the promise of a roll and sausage for lunch, Lyra and I head out along the back road and into the stubble fields where she runs around like a loon whilst I assess the ripeness of the elderberries as against the current height of the nettles and the likely rate of growth. This calculus dictates that tomorrow I should carry two bags and wear long socks. Walking back we meet a deer hemming and hawing on the edge of Keith Kerr’s grass heap. It gives me a lairy eye until my camera is almost out of my pocket then darts into the trees.
On the way back to the house I check the greenhouse. There has been foul play! The single tiny leaf which had emerged from a pot of mixed hosta seeds has GONE. I issue silent curses to the gastropod fraternity. Still, the mullein seeds have come up famously. As I munch my lunch I am almost tipsy with possibilities. I have done ALL THIS and it’s barely into the afternoon. If I get up early every day what miracles could I work.. Reality hits after lunch when I decide to dig some compost into the new space and plant it up with my birthday plants. With a boneshaking shudder, the tree spade hits a vein of clay. I am hacking out giant clods and replacing them with the good stuff until four. I am done. There will be no planting up today. Suddenly I am swimming against a tide of weeds and rocks and jobs that haven’t even been started. I give myself the curtains lecture and promise myself just one last, achievable, job. Half an hour later sees my seedlings swaddled in freezer bags anent snails and the fuchsia cuttings mum gifted me potted on.
Walking back to the house in a flutter of butterflies, with a cider on the air, a world of possibilities reopens.
Like the image of the 16 year old girls standing on their single skinny legs and pecking at their phones……