This is the entre I wrote for yesterday - i.e. Tuesday. I never got to post it up because the internet connection went down at around 10am for twelve hours. It is now hopelessly out of date. Instead of sunshine we now have rain - lots of it. But for the sake of nostalgia, I'm going to post it anyway...
Aaaah! Sunshine at last! Time to dust down my sandals and go out into the garden. There are a million and one things that need doing and I’m sure the dogs will bring back my trowel and gardening gloves if I ask them nicely.
An hour later and not only have my gardening gloves failed to materialise but now my spare flower pots are strewn all over the grass. Some are distinctly chewed. I grit my teeth and keep on with the re-potting feeling very virtuous. The lavender smells heavenly so I put it near my old fashioned arbour, near the equally old fashioned clove pinks. The trouble with making a space like this for myself is that I find I want to simply sit out there and think and dream rather than do anything useful. The brambles are growing by the minute and all I want to do is curl up in the arbour and read poetry. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day….?’
But no, I tell myself that today I must keep myself busy and then I shall ‘earn’ a cup of tea. What a wretched take on life! So instead I go and brew myself some tea and bring it out into the garden, curl up in the arbour, read more poetry, ‘Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day and make me travel forth without my cloak?’ and get absolutely sod all work done.
I know what you’re thinking. Can she keep this up? Let me tell you, I could procrastinate for Wales. So I go indoors, find a cardigan (in spite of the sunshine there’s little heat in the air) and a new book, this time my Anglo Saxon Herbal, the Leechbook of Bald. Oh, this is a walk on the wild side for me! All those recipes for dealing with elves! It’s heady stuff. What with that and the heavy scent of honeysuckle dripping down the wall, I must be reaching a herbal high or something.
After a while, however I feel that if I can’t get on with anything useful I should instead tear myself away from the elves and the woundwort and go and inspect the boundaries. This is a euphemism for seeing what Mr Sarcophagus Jones is up to. I noticed him having a large delivery from Jewsons this morning. From the look of things he is building a ballista high up on the terrace of his front garden. Another poem comes unbidden to my mind….
High upon the terrace,
Mr Jones is lying, p*,
Playing with his ballista
He has hit a Methodist.
[I should mention here of course that there is absolutely no evidence that Mr. Sarcophagus Jones or his good lady are ever the worse for drink. Indeed not. The rumours about five empty bottles of sherry in his recycling bag at Christmastime were pure gossip mongering.]
And finally, I finish the day with a well earned Haiku:
Thought I'd write Haiku
THen thought, 'Why should I bother?'
So I never did.
Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info - watch this space!
