The Natural Order

Today we took the footpath through Joan and John's long garden for the first time in ages. They've moved out now, into separate care homes, and it shows in the garden. I don't know why we've ignored this walk for so long as it leads through a wood out into fields which have the most stunning views. Continue on down the hill and you skirt the land of some questionnable people who allegedly let their vicious dogs roam freely. But that implied threat only adds a frisson to the pleasure of the walk. Back in the garden, the neglect is obvious and depressing. They were serious plantsmen, the two of them, and as well as flowers and shrubs they grew every kind of vegetable and fruit in ordered beds and cages. Hens clucked and scratched in a neat enclosure, but now there are smelly ferrets in small cages with hammocks slung above the ground for their comfort. Nettles cover everything, and the asparagus is taller than me and as thick as a sausage from a farmer'' market. I mooched up and down feeling more and more glum. Decay and dilapidation. It's the natural order of things, isn't it? Nothing lasts forever, and those two had a long and happy life. You could see it in their faces, and their interaction with each other. Whoever takes on this property in the end will almost certainly be a keen gardener, or else they'll turn the whole plot into grass. Either way it will be developed and tamed. And so it goes.

My brain also showed signs of decay yesterday when I tried to fill in the answer to the last crossword clue. "Oil producer - usual type working around Cairo primarily". A simple clue, an anagram of 'usual type' and the letter 'c', and the answer was obviously eucalyptus. I wrote in Yucalyptus, but that wasn't right with two 'y's and no 'e'. For ten minutes I struggled with it, my mind a stubborn blank wall determined to make it fit. Eventually it clicked and I realised my mistake. I think my face must have looked like Munch's The Scream when I finally got it, the shock hitting me like a bunch of frozen carrots. Ye gods! Is this really how it goes?

The wind continues to howl in mad surges of violence, its second day. Yesterday afternoon I lit the woodburner to provide comfort for my Italian group, and when they left I put on a huge log that kept burning gently until I went to bed at 11pm. I always iron in the sitting room, usually in the evening and always watching television. I fear that my white bedding will come off badly if it touches the kitchen floor, the state of which I can't vouch for, and I had accumulated four lots of duvet, sheet and pillowcase sets. By the time I finished the third lot I was dripping from the excess heat, as red as a 1960s schoolboy's knees in winter. I've broken the back of it now, and will finish off tonight. But there'll be no fire. That small room only needs one source of heat at a time.