The Bush Whisperer

This morning I was, again, caught for a chat by our neighbour. There I was merrily pegging the washing out and she was, again, asking me if the people from the scaffolding place had been round about the broken paving slab and what-have-you because she’d been texting them about it. They haven’t, and she’s going to text them again. Which means, come Monday, we get to have the conversation all over again.

During the course of the conversation, I was asked what my plans were for the day. What my plans were was, at that very moment, rapidly changing. I had planned on emptying out the shed and starting to sort all that crap out, but as I realised that I would be running a constant risk of conversation about the mess the scaffolders left, I said that I didn’t really have anything planned. Carole was off to Harrogate to do arty-farty things and I was just going to potter.

And then, predictably, I was told off for not making the most a gorgeous day like today.

One of the benefits of just pottering round the house on a gorgeous day like today is that I get to see the people who have told me off for not planning to enjoy it by being out in the sunshine also not being out in the sunshine at all. Unless it was to have a fag. Or to sit on the back doorstep on your phone whilst epilating the hairs from your feet.

I mean, as it happened, I did venture out into the harmful UV rays to get a bit of Vitamin D. And to, after several years, try and extricate the remains for the trellis arrangement from the ball of foliage that used to be a merrily climbing clematis. It was like a giant game of kerplunk, where the wood was the straw and the clematis the marbles.

Sort of.

What it boiled down to, pretty much, was me shouting “Oh come on!” to a piece of wood and a bush as I tried to separate them, baffled by what it could possibly be that was holding one to the other.

And if that’s not making the most of the sunshine, then I don’t know what is…