The Stuff of Dreams

What a difference a day makes. I paid for yesterday's exuberance, scarlet of cheek and glassy of eye before the evening was out, and drenched not once but twice during the night. I dragged myself out of bed into a foggy morning, visibility only a hundred yards or so, but by lunchtime the sun had broken through and I had to get out. Funny how my energy returned, though I expended it again quickly by clipping away at the rampant hazel stumps. It was so warm in the sun, and I could have sat quietly soaking it up except that I couldn't help looking around me at all the jobs that need doing and that I can't start in my current state. So frustrating. I talk firmly to myself, tell myself that everything will get done eventually. The trouble is that it's mostly me who has to do everything, and so far other people's mistakes or slowness or plain incompetence has involved me in much harder work than I wanted or needed, leading to the exhaustion which allowed this current bug to sneak past my defences. It makes me cross, it really does. But I have to shrug it off and wait. I still dream of the garden being finished as I want and my routine to be more maintenance than major jobs. Dream on, you may say. But I will. It's what I'm best at.

The eponymous medlar tree, covered in fruit