Axeman

I do not know how I ever found time to go to work.

The day has drawn to an end. I have just ground to a halt in front of the computer and everything hurts.

I think that this is likely to be because of the firewood adventures. The bits of me that do not have agonising spasms have got splinters stuck in them, and some bits have got both.

I am, however, still filling up the log pile. It is a slow process.

Oliver came and helped me today, which made me remember that splitting logs is something of a skill. Even managing to hit the log in the first place takes some doing, and Oliver is a complete novice. He said, regretfully, that he was no good, and so by way of encouragement I told him the story of poor Thomas Cromwell, whose executioner took seven axe-blows to lop off his head. That is seriously rubbish. I could have done better than that.

Even Oliver could have done better than that.

It might be worth practising, actually. If our beloved leaders carry on down the current path of diabolical penalties for infringements of bat flu laws, capital punishment is the next logical step. Probably for chatting to another mum in the playground.

There might be some new career opportunities coming up. You never know when a skill might come in handy.

We had to dash off early, because Oliver had got to be back at school, and time somehow seemed to have slid away from us. I rang Lucy to ask if she would come and collect him, but she forgot where the field was, followed her sat nav and got hopelessly lost, so in the end I had to belt home with him myself.

I was not sanguine and mellow about this, and growled to myself for some time afterwards.

Once I had dumped Oliver for afternoon school I rushed back to the farm to carry on. The dog had gone home with him, because I thought that he had got cold and grumpy, and I missed him afterwards.

This alarmed me, because I did not especially miss Oliver, who is not often with me in any case. I missed the dog’s silently grumpy presence, slight whiff of smelly dogness, and endless scratching.

Roger Poopy’s father is my dog in his very soul. He follows me around the house as I do house work, and collapses with a sigh at my feet when I stay in one place for any length of time.

I do not often notice this, in the way that you do not notice your underwear unless you have eaten toast or biscuits, and got some inadvertent crumbs in it. It is just there, performing no particular function, but you would feel very uneasy if you were obliged to get up and not put it on.

I know that there are people who do not wear underclothing, obviously. I am not talking to you. Think of another metaphor and do not split hairs.

The dog is a bit like that, like underwear I mean, not like splitting hairs, and he is seventeen.

I did not like being at the farm without him.

Roger Poopy was not there either, being on his usual afternoon ramble with Pepper. We do not count Roger Poopy. Even though he is now a sensible grown-up he is still an idiot and you never forget that he is there, not least because even when he is asleep he lies in the places where you most want to put your feet.

When I got home there was a little bunch of irises and narcissi in the kitchen, which were a kindly present from another neighbour. This was thoughtful of her, because her own father died this week, and she has been struggling through her own tears.

Sometimes winter can feel very long and dark.

Have a picture of my labours. Those of an anxious frame of mind need not notice the chainsaw in the foreground.