Look what they did to my house:



(Not my house, in case you just clicked on this, but a house in which I rent a flat)

One of the scaffolders rang my doorbell at the crack of sparrow's fart this morning, all bright and Australian, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, some big boots and a disarming smile. And d'you know, I'm so knackered that the narrative arc implied by this didn't even occur to me until I told SC about it. I wonder if I have reached some enduring post-sexual state of being, or if this is a phase I'm going through.

It was still and sunny so I legged it pretty early - I didn't want to be cooped indoors all day with the scaffolders crashing about so I went to the allotment, saying they could help themselves to tea and coffee and asked them to be sure not to let the cat out the front, which they didn't. I kind of expected to have all of the garden back to empty by the time I came home and I can't tell from the top whether it's finished or not, but presumably one way or another they'll be back tomorrow, bright and early, and that'll be the last of them till the work's finished and it all has to come down again. It's the painters that will be here for months, and a question that has only just occurred to me is how they'll be expecting to get access. I can't imagine it would be through my flat as the landlord hasn't mentioned it and he's been meticulously correct in all my dealings with him so far.

I talked to SC about all the 'hot thought' referred to in my last post, about the hope and the future and all that, and now that I'm writing about it again, it strikes me that the short lifespan of veg that touches something I don't like. Relating to ED, as does everything. She's like a lens through which I view my life. My baby.

Anyway, the flowerbed will be more permanent, which may be while I feel a bit enthused about it. Most of my favourite plants are perennials, that may die back to nothing but a rootstock in winter, but come back year after year. SC was very keen on the idea - we've always wanted the allotment to offer some kind of sanctuary for us mental health types so this is actually putting some of that in place. We liked the idea of me and Bloke doing it together and so did he when I mentioned it to him. I think of it as my garden of solace and I will make it with ED in my heart.

But it's a long way off yet. This is the patch I'm talking about, from two different angles:





It hasn't been properly cleared since we took over - the brambles were slashed to the ground, but the roots are still there so they come back each spring, along with a mass of stinging nettles and bindweed. Step one, therefore is digging it over properly and oiking out all those roots, and that's not the job for me (knackered), Bloke (ooh, his back), or SC as she has the vegetables to be getting on with, so we need someone else to do that, possibly paid (we have funding).

I am quite excited about it.

Today I am grateful for: A project, thank fucking fuck I have become enthused by a project again; SC for being a great friend; for not having had triplets - I saw a couple today trying to manage three one-year-olds and a load of food shopping - no thanks; YD, SIL2 and GS arriving tomorrow; a sunny day

Sweet dreams xx