The thing about having a solitary life is that really no day is very much different from any other day.
Well, obviously Saturday is different, because we are busier at work and so there is no time to write in these pages, and then Monday is different as well, because it is Clean Sheets Day, but apart from those two cyclical landmarks, really, most days pass as being pretty indistinguishable from the others.
I like this. It is nicely predictable.
I suppose weekends are also different, because the builders across the alley are not there, and so there is no massive influx of firewood to curse, and then to dismember, to be stacked under cover out of the endless rain.
Actually it is not raining today, apart from briefly, for about ten minutes, at the exact moment I was pegging the washing on the line. I brought it all in to hang over the fire, and then gazed out at blustery, but nevertheless cheery, sunshine for the rest of the day, and thought uncharitable things about the Weather Gods.
In fact the weather has been considerably more clement today. The wind has veered around so that it is a little more southerly, and its icy sting is no more. I took the dogs over the fells this morning and there was a skylark singing its optimistic love-songs on the tops, which was encouraging for hopes of Spring Yet To Come.
On the subject of bird-song, I have been watching our blackbird in the yard, and discovered that it seems to have no need to open its beak to sing. It produces its warbly song through a completely closed mouth. I am not sure through which orifice the song is actually escaping, let us imagine it is its nose, of all the possible orifices available on a bird this seems the most likely, not that I had ever noticed birds having a pronounced nose. Still it seems to be the best available option, since there is no romantic appeal to airborne musical flatulence.
I wonder if dinosaurs sang. This seems to me to be entirely possible, given their resemblance to birds. Consider the similarity between say, the Tyrannosaurus and a Christmas turkey. Had the Tyrannosaurus fossils been small and pink with sage and onion stuffing, you would hardly tell the difference. Hence it seems likely enough, and I do not know why we assume that they might roar, other than it is convenient if you wish to produce a big box office Hollywood epic with several episodes and lots of scary moments to make the audience jump. Also the only thing that is stopping a robin from being considered the most savage creature on the planet is its diminutive size. They are pretty but quite terrifying, a bit like Meghan Markle.
I had not been long returned from my muddy splash over the mountains when the doorbell rang, and it was a chap from Amazon with an enormous box. I had not ordered anything, and was surprised, but on investigation it turned out that it had been sent by Mark.
It was an apologetic chainsaw.
It was not a chainsaw like our existing chainsaw, which is large and oily and loud, and designed for hacking feet off the unwary. It was a small green chainsaw, with a battery, that looked as if it might have been designed for Lumberjack Barbie.
It was very little indeed, lightweight, and festooned with safety guards, and I examined it with great interest.
The box also included miniature accessories. There was a tiny file for sharpening the blade, not one, but two batteries, which is always helpful, some safety glasses, which probably I will never use, a spare chain, hurrah, and a set of what looked rather like gloves for Gardening Barbie.
I have not yet used it. I plugged the first battery on charge before I came out to work, and left it to enjoy its pristine newness for the last time. Tomorrow I will give it a try.
I am looking forward to that. It will make the whole firewood business quite astonishingly easier.
I suppose I ought to forgive him now for leaving the whole shed in such a shockingly inaccessible mess that I can’t even find a crowbar in an emergency
I might consider it.
As long as he tidies it up when he comes home.
