Tuesday August 23, 2005
“You’re not enjoying this, are you?” Graham stated.
“No. You could say that. Don’t worry about us, though, we’re managing fine.”
“You need a break.”
“That I do.”
“Right. Leave it with me.”
A further council of war later in the day fixed it all, not the actual date, but close. Dolly and I are to pile into the little silver Ford and take ourselves off to Somerset some time in September for a week in a caravan at St Audries, Graham will move over temporarily from his little cabin, and we shall enjoy a pleasant reunion, breaking the long haul to the end of the season in mid-October. I’ve already secured a promise from a neighbour here to look after the house while I’m away.
Not just that but I am strictly instructed to take it easier on the house selling bit, to the extent of declaring one day a week when I am “not available” for viewings. Darn good idea, and it’ll lessen the load considerably.
“I think you should let up on the cleaning, too,” he said. “Won’t make any difference to a serious buyer anyway.”
“I’d already just about reached that conclusion myself,” I said. “Nice to have it confirmed.”
“Well, there you are then.”
And so I am. There, I mean. Wherever ‘there’ is. We discussed the whole thing rather more than this of course, and outlined several options to see us through.
Then I took myself out to the garden and cut grass under increasingly heavy skies. It could be that it’ll rain tomorrow and there was already a one-and-a-half bag load of growth. Several neighbours, hearing my electric mower start up, came out, looked up at the sky and decided I was right. Within half an hour it was like a street party out there, grass getting cut in all directions. We’re entering into the period now in late summer when I shall need to fit my grass cutting in with the weather. Electric mowers and wet grass do not mix.
Job done, mower cleaned and the cuttings neatly bagged up ready to go out with the trash on Thursday, I sat down outside the kitchen door to cool off. A new generation baby rabbit has turned up and taken temporary residence in the long bed opposite the kitchen and he poked his head out to look at me solemnly, then returned to his task of dead-heading petunias, showing every sign of appreciation. Good company, and I don’t grudge him a few tired blooms. He doesn’t seem too interested in the stuff that’s coming into new bloom now. I left the side gate hitched back so’s he can go back to the field when he’s had enough of a floral diet.
Of course there’s the increased likelihood of Murphy’s Law cutting in now, with some earnest buyer turning up and making our little Somerset holiday impossible. Would I complain about that? Well, of course I wouldn’t. Not a lot, anyway.