smug

Best cure for pettiness= gardening.

So, after a miserable contemplation of broken fridge, steaming car and general falling apart, I went outside with string and scissors and finally tied up all my lovely new vines so they will grow up the arbour.  That was so satisfying I dug out the tree saw and opened up the privet and ivy behind the bin enclosure, to give more sun to my struggling Zephyrine Drouhin – and made up an anti-mildew spray as well, and sprayed it.

Bit between teeth: planted out lavender cuttings (more had taken than I had thought), glued broken slat of swing seat, watered everything, admired plums and lone passionfruit.  Came in for a pee and fixed the sunken bath-panel while I was staring at it, all it needed was a shim.

Helpless feeling engendered by broken fridge/useless LG/vanishing servicemen dispelled.

Odd not being able to cook much, there are gaps in my day.  Milk, eggs generally absent, as is meat.  Beer is warm, coffee is black, salad must be eaten same day.  It’s like going back seventy years.  If I Pollyanna it, I might even enjoy it.

 

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