Age

Rockery in waiting

Stiff as the cab-horse of cliché.  All I did yesterday was plant a couple of roses and cut the grass, but I knew all about it this morning.  (But I suppose I had also hung and brought down four loads of laundry, and even ironed a strict minimum of it, such being the hedonistic rewards of a sybaritic retired lifestyle.)  I'm looking forward to getting the mower back from the fettlers: though the electric mower did the job much more easily than last time, it still took well over an hour.  Couple of weeks to wait before we reach the top of the waiting list for mower servicing.  Serious bourgeois crisis. 

Martyn has hauled out miles of weeds, and planted new acquisitions in the rockery.  I've wired the new fence to anchor the climbers, and heaved a load of bark round the herb sink to conceal the subjacent manhole (less permanently than the Previous Administration, which had laid turf over it!). 

Long lunch of leftovers today: the last of Friday's roast lamb, a bit of boiled ham from Fortnum's, cheeses from the Auvergne, Pyrenees and Normandy, and home-made ciabatta.  The whole consumed under a comfortably veiled sky, with assistance from the last of the BiBs we brought back from France. Brief siesta each!