The long and the short of it

As George Orwell once wrote, it was a cold bright day in April and the clocks were -

Well no, they weren't striking thirteen. They weren't striking anything. The red paint was splashing about at 5am again (you need to have read yesterday's entry to know what I mean by that) but TSM pulled me into a caring embrace that sent me into a sweet half sleep until about a quarter to seven, which is a lie-in by my standards. Eventually made my way yawning downstairs to find The Girl Racer and her mate Miss H sitting on the kitchen floor with Fat Boy climbing all over them and looking very happy. The girls had been up all night drinking vodka at a friend's house but seemed remarkably together, despite tales of falling over in nightclubs. I made tea and toast and went to do a couple of hours work whilst TSM concocted a wonderful shakshuka which we ate whilst reading the Sunday papers, although I got them mixed up and found myself reading the previous week's for some time. No matter, it was all interesting. Very amusing to see the discomfort of my least favourite political party who are getting in a mess over cash for favours, petrol pumps and Cornish pasties. Serves 'em right.

Gardening. There's a thing. Good if you are a person of leisure or have few other interests. I like it but I'd rather be blipping. Dug a lot, tidied a lot, had some conversations with a red robin who ate lots of worms and bugs that I dug up. Tame little chap who did everything except sit on my shoulder. Gardening always makes me think of my childhood for some reason. Today it made me recall a cheesy but rather lovely Ray Bradbury (yes he of science fiction fame) poem call "Remembrance".

SPOILER ALERT - if you want to read it and get the full dramatic effect (it's a longish poem) go Google it now and read it before carrying on ...

Anyway the bottom line is that the young Ray Bradbury leaves a note in a tree and the middle aged Ray Bradbury comes along forty years later and finds it but can't remember what he wrote and the poem ends thus:

Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.

Inevitably, ended up in a garden centre - this is Surrey man, it's compulsory to visit a garden centre every weekend between April 1st and September 30th - which is where we saw these two wierd alien giraffes. They are big, I mean almost life size. Seem to be made out of the same stuff as the alien car thingies in Transformers. Impressive in a freaky sort of way.

Had tea and scones and bought some herbs and came home and mowed the lawn and my god!!! I'm reading this as I write and it is SO middle class, I must rush out and wash the car and drive to the nearest golf club for an early evening G&T!!!

Really, I'm not like that. I hate golfers, except in Scotland where it doesn't have the same stupid class connotation that it does in the home counties.

So here I am, happy at 5pm, a long way from woken up with a ringing in my head at 5am. The long and the short of it is, a nice day and still the evening to come ...