I’d popped into Lidl’s really for some packets of herb seeds. I’ll not say this too loudly, at risk of causing a stampede – we’re not too far from the site of the Great Ikea Riot of 2005 – but you can get a packet of parsley seeds for just 49p in Lidl’s. I know, amazing isn’t it! And then I spotted a packet of Mixed Annuals.
Probably, my own fault, to begin with. Shouldn’t have had the tea. Shouldn’t have gone online.
Last night to our local flea-pit to see ‘Carmen’, streamed live from the ENO. Brilliant: sultry, sensuous and edgy. Matched the weather, which has been hotter than Spain.
“Well she’s no better than she should be,” was ActorLaddie’s verdict. How true.
As I remember her telling it, LovelyColleague thought she’d take the chance to pick up some bits for their new home. In particular, she fancied getting a few scented candles. So it was that she and hubby found themselves queuing for the midnight opening of the new IKEA.
“We seem to be heading for the station. Should I have brought my wallet?” asks Pa.
“Should I have changed? I don’t look very smart,” worries Ma.
They have been persuaded by LittleBro to go for a mystery trip in his car on the promise that “he has something he wants to show them.” You’d think they’d know better than to get in a car with a strange man.
“Surely that’s their son?” you cry. Indeed he is. Doesn’t stop him being strange. Probably explains it, in fact.
Whan that Aprill with his showers sweet
Is watering the sod aronde my feet,
And weedes do sprout and gentile seedlings harden
Thanne longen I to go and dig the garden
And pick the hyacinths and prune the pentas
And wander lustilly round garden centas.
And this is why my blogging’s gone to pot
And furthermore hath schoolwork been forgot.
But now, alack, I reape what I have sown
And over empty planning folders groane
The thought of class tomorrow mack me shiver
With so few arrowes ready in my quiver.
“It serves you rite,” my inner Ofsted’s chanting,
“For Easter spente in planning not, but planting.”
I’ve come over all pastoral and may descend into madrigals at any minute. You have been warned.
– I woke up to find that InfantPhenomenon had not after all thrown over BikingLad in order to marry Gordon Brown and
– I now know very slightly more than nothing about Classical Humanism (it was Roman) and the Medici family (they were Italian) and
– I’ve made a small impact on the jungle we inherited but still lots to get my teeth into and
– I wore my new fingerless gloves what Ma made me for Christmas and
– drank coffee from my new thermal mug what Secret Santa gave me and
– ate a toastie from the toastie-maker what Mrs Castle gave me and
– Ma wasn’t too traumatised by receiving fourteen garden gnomes for her birthday and
– Pa said at least it would be someone to talk to and
– we’ve managed to rearrange the bungalow to squeeze in Young Lochinvar and Ms Tintin while they look for alternative digs – preferably somewhere that doesn’t give you an electric shock when you turn on the light and
– there’s still a week of the Christmas holiday left and – Oh joy unconfined! Verily rejoice! –
– there’s a whole year before we have to do any more Christmas shopping.
Mind you, the 99p shop is already selling Creme Eggs.
It’s a quarter to three. There’s no-one in the place except ActorLaddie and me. And Willow. ActorLaddie is curled up peacefully; dreaming, I expect, of livery companies. Don’t ask. Really, don’t ask. Willow, at a guess, is investigating the strange oval shape which has recently appeared on the lawn. I am lying on my back, hoping for a car to drive past and counting my blessings. One – ActorLaddie.