Blogging from Bridport - Day 7

Day 7.

The cast:

Me

'The Undertaker' (husband)

'Nearly 90' (mother)

'On the ground in France' (son)

'Office darling' (daughter)

Frost on the ground this morning despite bright sunshine. ‘I knew I was right not to cut the lawn’ I say. Every summer it’s the same old battle. Manicured lawn minus daisies or dandelions (him) versus longer grass filled with an assortment of whatever pops up (me). Before the first mug of tea has even been drunk we reach a compromise. Mown lawn with some areas left to ‘develop’.

It’s the same with the two raised vegetable beds too. There is stuff sneaking its way through the soil that he hasn’t noticed. ‘We’re not growing Cucamelons this year either, the novelty wore off after the first hundred were picked. Sweet peas, sweet peas and more sweet peas. Today I spotted a butterfly. Because I’m such a sneaky sort of person I’ve googled it so I can inform ‘The Undertaker’ when he returns what species it is. My, he is going to be so impressed.

Yesterday I made a roasted beetroot soup. I’m absolutely in love with beetroot. I was feeling rather smug whilst eating the remains today until I spotted I had splashed some on my favourite top, a Captain Corsaire blue and white Breton too. This isn’t any old stripey top, understandably I was temporarily upset. Leek soup it is then.

Once ‘The Undertaker’ and I have exhausted such topics such as:

1. What constitutes unnecessary travel (we’re still chewing over this one)

2. Should second homeowners be allowed to isolate themselves down here? (Controversial with a capital C)

3. If people over the age of 70 have been told to stay at home why are they still working?

4. Should we dobb in people who we know are flouting the regulations? (sort of joking)

5. Should ‘The Undertaker’ have leapt from the hearse yesterday when he saw the local drug dealer/low life pushing his way to the front of the queue at Boots and walloped him?

We get down to the more serious issues of the day. It transpires that there are no more peanut packed energy bars covered in chocolate for his lunchbox. ‘Take a banana’ I suggest. I can’t bring myself to type his reply but I've a strong mind to dobb him in to his Mother.

‘Office darling’ phones up to vent some frustration. It’s the half wits out there who sadly think they are an exception to the rule. She has to go to the post office; I have to go to the bank. What a time for my card to pack up. We agree to meet on the pavement at a certain time, six feet apart going out for essential business and using our one a day outside slot for exercise. Even so we felt like criminals unsure if we were following guidelines. Everyone on the streets is looking like a fugitive except some who use the sun to expose unnecessary white flesh and think exercise consists of white trainers and tight leggings. We stand outside 'Nearly 90's' window and wave. Small gestures. 

I step outside into the garden for the umpteenth time and pick up a pair of pruners. I gently prune the tumbling pink rose on the fence and admire the new crop of daisies. I reach the hateful plant (whose name escapes me) which despite my best efforts I can’t kill. In a vulgar shade of deep purple with vivid pink blotch’s it really is an affront to an English country garden. I set about vigorous pruning and pray for a hard frost. I can’t dig it up because ‘The Undertaker’ quite likes it and it’s a give/take relationship after all…

I’m quite exhausted by all this housework. Both fireplaces have had the grates cleared which has given me a bout of sneezing. I’ve washed my hands so much they are cracking. I’ve realised my fringe needs cutting and I have to think of a sexy recipe for English bangers. Before I know it its time too for the family video link, 'Office darling', 'On the ground in France' and myself. This stay at home malarky is time consuming I can tell you.

‘How’s YOUR day been dear’?