Donkey floss

Judging by the overgrown state of the near side of the garden we won't be short on wild garlic or boysenberries this year. The damson has just come into bloom and there's quite a lot of sturdy growth on the blackcurrants. This year I shall be paying a but more attention to the gooseberry bush; between the attentions of gooseberry sawfly and a rambling rose I thought I'd disposed of two years ago it had a fret time of it this year.

All this will no doubt be superintended by Hugh, the cat I do not have. Hugh's current sleeping quarters vary between my front doorstep, under the lilac tree and under next door's car. All this despite the fact that next door went to the trouble of buying it a covered cat bed and putting it inside their wash house doorway, well away from wind and rain. I am assured that This Is How Cats Are and it accords with all my experience of the beasts. Having been acquainted for nearly two years it surprised me that I've only just noticed that Hugh is, in fact, a little kiddie's cartoon cat. He really is a rectangle with little stubbly legs and a bit of a tail stuck on one corner.

Ruinning out of steam

The Small Object of Desire asked me if I was excited about a big work's project finally coming on stream. I confessed I was not. Puzzled, she asked why not. She thought I'd be relishing the challenge and the opportunities to get a pile of problems finally sorted. And so I should be.

But I'm bored with it.

It took ten years to get off the ground and this preparatory stage, which should have been two or three months tops is nearing it's first anniversary with every final end in sight being just an ephemeral dream.

If this project were Sim City I'd be at the stage now where I'd be fighting the urge to introduce an influenza epidemic to town.

The bits they cut out of The Lovers' Guide, part two

The entirely inappropriate fake orgasm.

Update from the Matto Grosso

As per usual, the garden is in a bit of a state. In part this is down to my lassitude; in part due to spending half of each week over at The Small Object of Desire's gaff. And then in January we decided to set to it:

• We had a go at installing the fence panels I bought last March. I might have a go at supergluing the bits together again.


• The front garden is piled knee-high with prunings of lilac, hazel, dogwood and roses. I may yet make a bonfire.


• Many of last year's cheeky lengeths of brambles have been grubbed out and chopped back...

Which is where I came a cropper. A particularly egregious bramble shoot ran from the bramble patch on the railway embankment, shot up the air, wrapped itself round a branch of the conifer about twelve feet up and then descended into my garden, rooting itself along the length of the back border. So I decided: I'm having you, you bastard.

And that's what I was doing when I fell out of the tree.

Luckily, no bones broken though quite considerable pain and a full Robert Newton Long John limp right up to the beginning of last week.

In the meantime, the garden's been full of snowdrops and crocus and a cluster of double hellebores has been doing the business since Christmas. Not one daffodil yet, dammit. The big pot that should be chock full of Salome and February Gold has been waterlogged all winter after an ants' nest clogged up the drainage holes (silly buggers). I have hopes of the venerable clump of King Alfreds under the big rose bush but I reckon I'll be doing some bulb-buying come the Autumn.

I intend filling all the gaps with foxgloves and ox-eye daisies.

When I get round to it.

Confound it!

Just at the point where I'd resolved to be more diligent in keeping this blog ticking over and keeping tabs on the fine folks in the blogosphere Blogger goes and changes it's configuration. Now, I'll be honest: it was a bit of a pig to do on my mobile 'phone. But not impossible. It's still a bit of a pig to update but the public front end has suddenly changed. It's quite nice really, very cleanly-presented and all that. But the mobile version strips out all the widgets: no archive list, no blogroll, Hell, I can't even log in from here any more. Very perplexing.

So whereas the plan had been to keep up with you all while I was in transit and write posts at home on the laptop I'll be reading from home and writing on the bus. Expect lots of random place names in Bohemia and mad autocorrect errors…