Fertilisation

I have felt terribly disinclined to write anything tonight.

I have procrastinated and procrastinated, and now it is eleven o’clock, and I am only just starting to think abut it.

Even now it is a huge effort not to flick the button and look at interesting floor tiles on Amazon, or interesting roof tiles on eBay, or interesting anything on anywhere, rather than getting on and writing this. I have had this problem before, mostly when writing essays at college.

Usually if I really don’t want to do something, I try and get it done first, as early as I possibly can, so that the rest of the day it isn’t hanging over me. I read about doing this in a magazine years ago, and have found it to be a jolly good way of feeling cheerful about life, but tonight I do not seem to have had much success with that approach.

I do not read magazines any more. I gave up when I was at a particularly low point in life, broke and unfit, and someone brought me a magazine to cheer me up. This featured an eight page article about my ex-best friend who had just been voted Rear Of The Year, modelling fashions and talking about how she was spending her vast wealth.

All magazines can get lost now, by way of revenge.

I think I have run out of will power, like the battery in my toothbrush. It is a good job that I have not got any chocolate.

I have not had any will power all day. I have had the sort of frustrating day where the Weather Gods have won the washing game every time, and where I have started a dozen jobs which I have failed to finish.

The highlight of the day was digging out a hole in the garden in the space to which we are going to move the compost heap.

I wanted to dig it out because it had a dead dog in it, not a recently dead one, although that is just Roger Poopy’s good fortune after I found the mess he had made of Lucy’s bed. It was a long-ago dead dog of whom we were all very fond, and whom I thought would be better re-interred in the flower bed than under the foundations of the conservatory.

It did not matter in any case, because we failed to find it, and Mark said that it must be already underneath the new flower bed.

It must have been, because I dug out the black currant bush as well, and it wasn’t there either. I was surprised about this, because I had always attributed the black currant bush’s astounding success to the nearby presence of the dog.

I planted the black currant bush somewhere else and moved the dog’s headstone to the place we thought that the dog must be after all.

Mark was moved to consider his father’s ashes whilst we were on the subject of garden fertility. These have been moved from the coffee table, after some strenuous protests from me, and are now on the top of the grandfather clock. He has telephoned various relatives to ask if there is anything they would like to do with them, but nobody has come up with any sensible answers.

Actually, nobody has come up with any answers at all. They all said something like: “Umm, we’ll ring you back,” apart from one elderly aunt, who said that the crematorium was the place to scatter a dead person.

Mark says that he is not going to be sprinkled about at the crematorium to fertilise their lawns, because we have got a perfectly good lawn of our own.

If it were me I think I would be very pleased to be contributing to the richness of garden soil. I am very keen on composting anyway, although obviously I find it difficult to wee on the compost heap myself, it is one of those things that is handy about being married.

I do not wish to throw away such a rich source of garden minerals, but we did not get round to doing it today.

I did not move the compost heap either.

Even the washing has not dried properly yet.

I don’t care. The one thing that I have finished is this entry.

I am going to read my book.