The weather is positively balmy, and I have dried not only the clean sheets in the garden, but our clothes and towels as well.
Mark is hoping for some rain, because the ground is getting dry, and he wants to plant some seeds at the farm, but I don’t imagine the Gods are listening to him.
Truly the spring is with us.
It feels like it as well. The swifts are soaring overhead, filling the sky with their wonderful piping call, and the Library Gardens are white with the flowers blowing from the glorious candles from the chestnut tree. I cut some lilac blossoms from the tree in the front garden this afternoon, and brought them into the bedroom, where they are filling the air with their glorious scent.
I have become entirely frustrated with my irritating disability because I am longing to go for a walk. Number One Daughter called this afternoon and checked that I was resting it, and I told her, entirely untruthfully, that I was.
Of course I am not, and have stumped up to the other end of the village whilst shopping this afternoon, with the consequence that it was thoroughly painful afterwards, but it does seem to be getting better even despite my complete failure to attend to any recovery-related instructions. The bruising has almost faded, and I can get my shoe on now, as long as I don’t lace it up. I am disappointed about losing the bruises, they were spectacular and invoked some satisfactory sympathy, at least from me.
I have dusted and hoovered and swept, and as an encore, I have cleaned out my taxi. This is necessary during the light nights when everybody can see it, it doesn’t matter in winter. Then I put the wonderfully clean and garden-scented sheets back on the bed, and turned my attention to my project of the day, which was to write my assignment.
I am finding this remarkably difficult to achieve, not least because at the moment I can’t switch the computer on without checking my emails obsessively to see if any of the six agents to whom I have sent my dragon story have responded. Of course they haven’t, they all say that it will be at the very least six weeks, and probably more like twelve. It hasn’t even been one week yet, but I keep desperately checking anyway. I wish somebody would hurry up.
Of course I know that no news is better than no buzz off, but I have worked myself up into a complete tizz about it, and can’t help but feel a little twitch of despondency every time my email inbox comes up and tells me nothing other than that Mark’s seed order has been posted, Oliver has had a credit slip for some educational virtue, or that it is time to read the electricity meter. All of these things are doubtless important but not nearly as interesting as an email from a literary agent, especially the sort that might start: I am pleased to tell you.
I had not got one of those again this afternoon, and so with a weary sigh, turned to my assignment.
I have got to write a non-fiction piece and am writing some stuff about gardening. In fact once I actually got going with it, it wasn’t so bad, and I quite enjoyed writing it. It is not as interesting as dragons, but it is better than hoovering.
I have not finished it. I noticed with a nasty jolt that I was going to be late for work, and leaped out of the chair to fill my flask with tea and bring the last of the washing in. I have got to get it done this week, because Oliver is home the week afterwards, and amongst everything else we are doing, we have got Number One Daughter’s dog coming to visit us.
I do not mind this. I like him.
In any case, you can never have too many dogs.
