I can’t shake off an uncomfortable feeling of guilt that somehow life should not be this splendid.
It is as if we had taken early retirement. I know that some people are finding the self-isolation project a bit uncomfortably restrictive, but I am not one of them. We are managing to get so many things done that I can hardly believe it.
The only thing missing is that we can’t go and see people. If only we could go and have a glass of wine with Elspeth, or take a jaunt down to visit my parents, how perfect life would be.
Apart from the isolation bit of being isolated, it is jolly good, I can tell you, especially in the sunshine.
We had the joyous experience this morning of discovering that the conservatory is now sufficiently warm for sitting in, and we took our morning cup of tea outside. I can’t describe the happiness of that moment. Despite the sun and everybody’s worries about Global Warming, March in the Lake District is uncomfortably chilly, and sitting out of doors looks more appealing than it actually is. It is difficult to drink your cup of tea when you are wearing a balaclava, mittens and a woolly scarf.
This morning we basked, lizard-like, in the sunshine in our very own conservatory, with barely even a jersey, and felt so very pleased with ourselves that we could hardly stop smirking for long enough to drink the tea. It is not finished yet, we need to do lots and lots of things to it, mostly the watering system and the floor, but it is warm, and it is lovely, and one day we will earn money again.
After our self-congratulatory tea Mark went out to do some repairs to the wall between us and next door, and I gave the dogs a haircut.
We have been building up to this for some time, but the birds are nesting now, and yesterday I hoovered the stairs and discovered quite enough horrid dog hair to build a nest of my own, and so the Hour Had Come.
I dressed myself in a dustbin liner and cleared a space on the table in the conservatory.
The dogs loathe this activity and tried to slope off.
I recaptured Roger Poopy and hoisted him up on to the table, where he tried to make himself as small as possible, and lay, shivering with utter misery, with his nose tucked under his tail.
I would not have put my nose anywhere near his tail.
It was rather splendid to shear them and discover what shape they were underneath all of the fluff.
They wriggled and fidgeted and tried to escape once or twice, but I was Inexorable, and in the end Roger gave up, and just lay and licked my hand, rather pathetically, as if he had contracted Stockholm syndrome in the process.
It is a jolly difficult job, especially the armpits, or perhaps they are leg pits on a dog. The problem is that they are so tickly it makes the dogs jump and wriggle. I had to give up with at least one of Roger’s, and he has got some peculiar tufts sticking out.
Apart from that they are completely bald, and I have crossed ‘sheep shearer’ off my list of Things That I Might Like To Be When I Grow Up.
When I had finished they shook themselves and charged about in an ecstasy of lightweight happiness, and I put the horrible smelly dog hair in the front garden for the birds to take.
I was rather pleased with my success, so I did Mark’s hair next, which was easier because he sat still and did not try and lick my hand. I suggested to Oliver that perhaps he might also like some isolation low budget grooming, but he looked at Mark and the dogs and declined, politely. He is not going back to school at any time soon, so I suppose there is no rush.
After that I dug out the compost heap in the garden and brought it in to the new bed in the conservatory.
This was quite astounding. I do not think I have ever seen so many worms.
There were thousands. Actually thousands. The whole heap was alive with them, squirming pinkly over and around one another. We like worms, they are handy to have in a well-managed garden, but the overall effect was so astonishingly wriggly that it made us feel just a bit nauseous.
There is a picture attached. It is one I took near the end, at the bottom of the heap where there were hardly any left. The top layer was completely made up of worms. Practically every shovelful all the way down the heap had a mass of worms, dripping off in their dozens. It is quite clear that whatever you think about worms eating poo, what they actually like best to eat is melon. Every remaining fragment of melon rind was full of them, there were so many that we could actually hear the slithery noise that they were making
I put the top layer of compost back on the compost bin and filled the bed with the rest. It is black, and crumbly, and perfect. We covered it with a sheet of black plastic so that it will warm up nicely, and in a very few days we will plant things in it.
I expect there will be more exciting adventures tomorrow.
I bet you can’t wait.
