I can’t cut the grass

Monday October 25, 2004

A nasty, wet and grey morning. Graham looked out of the window, all glum because he needs some dry weather to cut grass and attend to heavy duty garden stuff. I looked out of the window, all glum because I had to drive into Spilsby for bread and milk. Dolly looked out of the window, all glum because we were all glum. Harry, the only wise member of the family, curled up on the sofa and snoozed the morning away.

I was the first to break the log-jam.

“Ah well,” I said. “Wet or not, I’ll have to go now if we’re to have anything for lunch.”

At the mention of the word “lunch”, Harry woke, stretched, and demanded a snack. I picked him up, gave him a wake-up cuddle, and plonked him down in front of his breakfast dish, still half-full with perfectly good food. Obligingly, he set to and polished off most of the contents, looked up, licked his lips, and stared pointedly at the Carnation Milk spot on the counter.

“Okay, Harry,” I said. “Hang on and I’ll see what I can do.”

And then I dashed out between the raindrops, got into the car and reversed down the drive on my way to the shop. I looked up at the window, to see Graham and Dolly looking out, contemplating the weather. Harry, so I am reliably informed, had already curled up for his afternoon nap.

It’s ridiculous to have to drive ten miles for milk, more so as motor fuel rapidly approaches a pound a litre. [If I have it right, that’s roughly 7.5 US dollars a gallon.] I’ve added local, walking or cycling distance shops to my list of desirables for the next house.

Back home, Dolly had joined Harry on the sofa and was snoring gently as she settled into her long afternoon nap. She twitched now and then. I reckon she was dreaming of dry, sunny days. Well, we can all dream.

Over lunch we chatted happily about all sorts of things, covering renovations, decorations, cabbages… We didn’t touch on the subject of kings, of course.

“I don’t know about you,” I said, stretching my bones, “but I’m off for my nap. How about you?”

Graham looked out of the window, streaming with rain. “Well,” he said, all traces of glum absent. “I can’t cut the grass.”


Stickford, Oct,'04
A little snack



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