Looking Good

Last week the long term weather forecast showed unrelenting rain, a horrible deep ridge of low pressure creeping across the country from the west to arrive in East Anglia by Sunday. But lo! As so often happens the forecast has changed for the better, and I'm inclined to believe this more positive version. With huge confidence I have now ordered a skip, and all the topsoil that's needed to level out the garden. When it's been evened off Martin and I will consider whether or not to leave the ground to settle before laying the turf: 40 tonnes is an awful lot of soil, and it's unlikely that bumps and dips won't appear in the following days, needing to be raked off again. I trust his judgement though, and in any case remind myself that I don't want a bowling green. My days of obsessing about lawns are well in the past.

Alys, the young mother (two toddlers and a 3-week-old baby!) who farms the land behind me has agreed to let me temporarily dump the soil where her land adjoins mine. When I checked this with her the other day she looked so tired I wanted to sit her down and make her a cup of tea, my own maternal instincts kicking in. But she said she was fine, and I know she has a huge support system - mum, sisters, sisters-in-law, friends etc. Babies and toddlers, aarrrgh! I'm stretched to the limit looking after my own issues at the moment.

My flu may be abating slightly, but I'm exhausted. After rushing downstairs this morning to open the door to the postwoman I had to sit down quickly, and promptly fell asleep. But the awful sore throat has largely gone, and if the lungs don't get infected I'll be fine. Staying indoors has been a wise decision, but alas I had to go into Fram briefly to pump up the wheelbarrow tyre and get some cash. I did the journey twice because the first time I forgot my wallet. I'm really not myself. The young lad who sometimes helps me in the garden, the charming Ash, is coming tomorrow to continue the job of ferrying stones from the back to the drive before the men arrive on Tuesday, and a wheelbarrow with a flat tyre would be useless. I'm disappointed to not be finishing the job myself: not exactly a Sisyphean task, though certainly a Herculean one, and a tribute to my dogged streak which sometimes verges on the masochistic.

Outside, the field behind me sports a thick and verdant crop of peas. I'm surprised at this, as I was told they were last year's crop too, and they usually rotate. It's big pea country around here, and when Bird's Eye pulled out of their very long-term contracts with local farms a few years ago it seemed that the good days were over. Luckily another frozen veg company (Findus?) stepped into the breach and tragedy was averted. The annual Peasenhall Pea Festival that celebrates the little green chap and its "incredible versatility" was saved. Anyway, apparently when the big machines have been in and stripped the plants in the field behind me I'll be able to follow them, an aging Tess gleaning the harvest, pea by pea.