Testing the camera now
12 June 2008
10 June 2008
08 June 2008
02 June 2008
We've both been really busy lately and the weekends have somehow seemed very packed. Probably because, with summer sun creeping up on us, our late starts to the day don't mean as much. At eight in the evening we can come in from trying to dig out the hearts of the dandelions that litter the garden, planting purple dwarf beans and whatever takes our fancy from the enormous bag of seeds a colleague who moved to Seattle left me. This weekend, in Izzy's case, it was after hours of endlessly pouring and repouring gravel and water into her series of stacking cups.
Suddenly I'm starting to understand how it was I spent interminable hours at nurseries and fishing tackle shops when I was growing up. You wake up, potter around in pyjamas, get fed and watered and then finally clean the sleep off Izzy's eyelids. Then it's off for lunch, quick, before these rural restaurants shut their doors at half past two.
After the panic, comfortably bloated again, it's time for gentle pottering around garden tools, rejecting the endless possibilities of Kelvedon Wonder and mottled broad bean seeds. After bribing Izzy with sweets, a tool, a packet of seeds (Alpine strawberries) it may be off to the playground or the allotment for me. Just time to shove some beans under soil in a couple of pots, check that the seedlings aren't drying out in the polytunnel and having one last look at the one row of salad that is very close to bolting. Curse the pigeons for continuing to tear up the young plants. Plan a scarecrow. Plan to name it after a work fiend.
Then home. If not the garden again for an hour or two, it's TV for Izzy. As she monopolizes the screen Alex makes dinner (he cooks on weekends) and I read the paper or knit. Yes knit. A tank top at the moment, with one side done actually.
Dinner. Desert. Izzy's nightly warm milk. Sometimes she wins bargaining for hot chocolate. And then brushing her teeth and bed.
It's nice.
Suddenly I'm starting to understand how it was I spent interminable hours at nurseries and fishing tackle shops when I was growing up. You wake up, potter around in pyjamas, get fed and watered and then finally clean the sleep off Izzy's eyelids. Then it's off for lunch, quick, before these rural restaurants shut their doors at half past two.
After the panic, comfortably bloated again, it's time for gentle pottering around garden tools, rejecting the endless possibilities of Kelvedon Wonder and mottled broad bean seeds. After bribing Izzy with sweets, a tool, a packet of seeds (Alpine strawberries) it may be off to the playground or the allotment for me. Just time to shove some beans under soil in a couple of pots, check that the seedlings aren't drying out in the polytunnel and having one last look at the one row of salad that is very close to bolting. Curse the pigeons for continuing to tear up the young plants. Plan a scarecrow. Plan to name it after a work fiend.
Then home. If not the garden again for an hour or two, it's TV for Izzy. As she monopolizes the screen Alex makes dinner (he cooks on weekends) and I read the paper or knit. Yes knit. A tank top at the moment, with one side done actually.
Dinner. Desert. Izzy's nightly warm milk. Sometimes she wins bargaining for hot chocolate. And then brushing her teeth and bed.
It's nice.
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