I thought it was all nearly over, and then I developed a stomach bug on Wednesday. Horrible rumblings and much debility, but I think that's on the way out too. I hobbbled along the beach at Sizewell in wall-to-wall sunshine yesterday with Ruth, dodging from bush to bush, and then spent the rest of the afternoon lying on her sofa watching a men's doubles match. Once home, I had no choice but to set fire to the several heaps of brush and branches that scattered across the garden. With rain due tomorrow, and the men definitely coming on Monday to do my makeover, I had to clear it. It literally went whoosh! in a strongish breeze, and so I laboured across the grass like the old man from Good King Wenceslas, massive bundles of firewood on my back, feeding the inferno. It's all gone now, and I haven't had a heart attack.
The skip came today, and I'm hoping my weekend guest (aka Kitty) will help me heave the gathered detritus into it: plastic sapling spirals, rubble, bits of bricks, rubber stable matting, rotten sleepers, it all has to go. I'm getting a bit excited now, and ignoring threats of rain for next week. What will be .... Amen.
And so here they are for the last time, as a permanent record for me when I complain about the garden: it used to be worse, I can tell myself!
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