Category Archives: Garden

274. I like big butts and I cannot lie…

It’s going to rain tomorrow: storms, they’ve promised storms.  A real proper-promise with little pictures of thunderbolts and lightening, very very frightening me, Galileo, galileo . ..  Actually, can you have a picture of Thunder? Whatever – they’ve promised storms.

Which will be very welcome because here in London it’s been toasty warm of late.  What’s that? Passed you by, did it? Easy to miss, I know; hardly been on the news at all.  I’m writing this in the garden, in the dark, at ten o’clock at night; inside it’s still thirty degrees. But that’s ok because tomorrow, it rains.

On which basis, ActorLaddie and I have been addressing our butts in preparation for said promised rainstorm.

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265. Welcome, March, with wint’ry wind –

It’s March the first, hey nonny no, and my muse, like my garden, is frozen.

I made a bash this morning at a blog on the theme of snowy days in school which inched towards the spell-binding conclusion that children like snow and cleaners don’t.  So if today is cold and miserable, well – at least I spared you that.

So I’m going to palm you off with some pictures of our most recent visitor.  Stay warm, stay safe; speak soon.

240. They go up diddley-up up; they go down diddley down down…

Pick us, Miss, pick us! Look how neatly we have lidded our marker pens! And see our flip-chart of ideas – a thing of beauty, too, in many colours, to which we all contributed collaboratively, working as a team…

Apart, that is, for the cow who teaches at – well, you know the one. Her anyway. Didn’t want to come on the course in the first place.  Thought ‘Schemas in the Under Sevens’ was going to be about curriculum plans and not fannying around with a load of bricks. The only thing that’s stopping her playing with a mobile phone is that they’ve not yet been invented.  We’d be better off teaching six year olds to name parts of speech, according to her.  What a dinosaur!

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239. Um…

“The thing is, before I retired, I used to rush around on a Sunday trying to get everything done.  But I’m finding now that I say ‘I’ll do this, that and the other tomorrow’ and do something else instead.  Then whatever it was never gets done.  Do you find that?”

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238. One of these things is not like the others…

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.

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162. “Oh no,” said Jellywoman, “I can’t stand this…”

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.

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152. Far from the madding crowd…

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.

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99. Just between you and me….

“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.

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97 Repentance…

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.”

93. With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nony no…

I’ve come over all pastoral and may descend into madrigals at any minute.  You have been warned.

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