Hang on little tomato

Two weeks of perturbation and perambulation.  
Nico up at a funeral at the start of the south, Mu by the sea.  Gab down in the fields along the river castrating maize.  
It fell on me to empty the house on the hottest week of the year.
It was a close call and felt like a fever dream. By Friday my head was adrift and my body was in a state comparable to post partum tiredness.
My evenings alone with Gab were precious;  We lit candles and he ate takeaway tacos while I lived on a four day diet of pistachios and gin. 
He sat on the end of the bed and tried to explain Shrodinger's cat until I cried pity and hoisted the white flag.
I shoveled him out of his bed at 6.30 every morning, drove him to the maize fields and went on moving out.  Bernie S occupied every doorway.
Eggs were breaking all around me but the omelette finally pulled itself together. 
Emma was appointed P.M with Wee Man and Madeleine as first ministers.  They moved into Number 10 and we shifted definitively to number 13. 
The cats kicked and hissed but had no choice and discovered that the mill was an unparalleled playground.
Mu moved into the helter skelter, Nico moved two pianos into the big empty room, lizzie fell over and I picked her up.  Her cat had serious Covid symptoms and is now in an oxygen box at the vets. 
I took a frazzled Emma out of her comfort zone where we drank a café cognac.
This photo is dedicated to her, my greatest friend, who must turn the page and keep hanging onto that vine.