Oh dear...
Good morning garden. Yesterday you caused me angst. I'd just spent five hours weeding you. I thought I'd made a good start in the Hump (where the wildest weeds grow, surrounded by self-sown foxgloves). But... I tried. Then I cried. Oh dear!
Foxgloves and Weeds
The Hump weeds seemed to get larger and more numerous, the more I pulled out. Humph. Not fair. So I took advantage of the low water rate to weed along the water race banks. I did my very best, honestly I did. My late afternoon shower should have been rewarding and refreshing. But it wasn't. I completely lost my confidence, and had a wee sniffly cry - so sad. And so silly!
Darmera Leaves
The lightest of reasons : OK, I have been a bit sick, a bit 'under the weather' this past week. And that weather! By summer standards it has been foul - the wind has roared continually and crashed into everything.
More!
But there's more : I've been poking away at a choir arrangement which has not gone well. I can't write what I want to hear. Blast! This musical issue just seemed to tip me over the edge. Sob, sob...
Escher :- Escher now has a young house-sister : a spotty brown GSP called Frida.
Then into this large pot of sorrowful, simmering sad-soup (?) came a magic ingredient - big brown dog Escher's father came for a visit. Yeay! He so cheered me up. Perfect timing! He will sort out my musical problem (guitarists are good at hearing oddball harmonies). He will also bring the dogs out and weed my garden with me. The 'look' of the waist-high weed forest did not put him off at all. All that was needed : fresh eyes, a spade, gardening gloves, some beers, and a dumping place. Easy, he reckoned!
Special Gift Rose
Next day, later...
Oh wow! A huge area of mess is all cleared - so easily, too, while the dogs roared around having fun. I continued the good fight through the afternoon, and all the weeds are piled underneath the hedge - what better place?
The hoses are on in the Hump Garden, I've planted my new rose called 'Special Gift' (a Christmas present from my jazz choir), and mounded up the potatoes (there are rather a lot of potatoes). I've cleaned up the messy lawn. Escher's father helped sort out my musical arrangement.
Tra la la?
My only problem now is Handel's Messiah. I am singing alto in it in six days time. I have never sung it before, and have been putting off practicing (still rather coughy from my flu). How good am I at sight-singing runny quavers? Hee hee. Almost certainly not good enough! But at least I've stopped crying.