What a Grind

The darkly handsome Lee arrived with his chainsaw and stump grinder this morning, glowering Heathcliffe looks and a lovely vulpine smile which lit up his face. The wind was blowing a gale, and the rain lashed right across the garden from the north, but he wasn't bothered. Within an hour the huge stump and all its horrible sucklings were sawdust, and there were a few logs to add to my pile. He had to manoeuvre his machine between my precious shrubs but he did it brilliantly, and then tidied up afterwards. All for £100. At last I'm shot of the horrible thing, which I had left in situ for so long because the delightful Julian Barclay who has massively overquoted me for every job I've asked him to consider, reckoned it would be several hour's work, two men, £500. You really make me laugh Julian, not. Lee even asked me if I wanted the elder that Did levelled yesterday ground out, and he did that for nothing. Lovely Suffolk man, one of so many I've employed.

Given the appropriate Wuthering Heights weather outside I had a blast indoors with my own hurricane - a musical one of double Wagner, Tannhauser followed by Tristan. I did my ironing while I listened, but given that this was nearly seven hours of music I did other things too: the crossword, some CAB learning, and some Italian preparation for my class on Monday and the little group of Ruth, Lesley and I who meet once a week to talk Italian. We talk English too, or not much would get said. And then we have tea, with cake.

It's so cold today, a taste of what's to come. There is simply no possibility of taking a walk. I shall continue to burrow in the cosy kitchen until it's time to light the woodburner. I'm doing it for Lennie and George.