The problem with January is that there isn’t much one can do garden-wise, for a start the sun may be shining but it’s bitterly cold which drains your enthusiasm somewhat. Having spent this time last year clearing the undergrowth from the long-neglected terrain and re-planting, it’s a question of waiting to see what comes up in the Spring. The lovely Lionel and darling Denis have prepped the pool area for the terrace construction so that area is out of bounds for me and the woofers, meaning the landscaping will have to wait. Of course, me being me, decided to keep boredom at bay by moving half a ton of firewood logs from the far end of the garden into the remis to keep them dry. My Herculian effort ended with a strained muscle somewhere around my elbow and half an hour trying to catch a displaced salamander in the kitchen. Thankfully with a bit of ingenuity and a lot of help from Callum, we managed to get the highly poisonous little reptile back where it belonged with a log to keep it warm over winter. That being said, I think I must have also disturbed the resident rodents of the woodpile as Alice is now obsessed with sticking her twitching nose in there instead of my kitchen cupboard (mouse still in house).
Having put myself out of action in the physical labour department, I’ve spent most of the last week trying to find things to occupy the mind instead of the muscles. I took up knitting which I was actually enjoying until my elbow started to protest (is there such a thing as ‘knitters elbow”?) and the subsequent attempt at doing a book of crossword puzzles was short-lived after I discovered that particular ability that runs through my family’s DNA, has not reached mine. And then there’s THE BOOK. Well, it’s being written albeit a little slower than I would like mainly because I like to walk around whilst I’m thought-processing and the woofers assume any movement means playtime. I need to buy one of those thingumajigs that allow you to stand up and tap away at the keyboard – that way I can fool Arry and co. Some parts of this crazy journey of ours are very hard to write, especially how it all started. The mind goes into some sort of protective amnesia about those early days and I didn’t start writing the blog until several months after T died. Yet, pulling the bandages off barely-healed wounds however painful, is also strangely cathartic – as though the scars need air to rejuvenate. I think T approves.
Speaking of T, our boy is leaving soon and has been busy getting the workshop shipshape so that us clueless people will be able to find necessary bits and bobs in there. I have been banned from touching anything remotely fascinating as, in his words, “Mum, you’ll just make a mess of it”. He has however been giving me a basic tutorial in how to plaster and has grudgingly allowed me to practice on a little bit of crumbling wall in the garage. I just hope it’s only the brickwork I have to mend and not my poor heart when it comes to taking him to the airport…….
“It’s not forgetting that heals. It’s remembering.” (Amy Greene)
Widow plus woofs 