I'm cream crackered. (April, this means I'm tired to the point of exhaustion. It's a Cockney rhyming slang sort of phrase that's passed into the vernacular of a certain generation of British people.) Colonials...
I was up early this morning and into the garden a little after a rather murky dawn. I'd planned to tiddle about with the vine, but got waylaid into clearing gutters and drains. We've had appalling rainfall here across the UK. In Cumbria people have been flooded out and a police officer lost his life on a collapsing bridge. Poor old Gordon Brown; that'll teach him to stab Tony Blair in the back for the leadership.
Clearing drains and gutters is an unusually satisfying gardening activity. I like the heavy duty-ness of it all; the prising off of drain and gully covers, the scraping out of accumulated muck and leaf litter, the flushing through with wholly unnecessary amounts of pressure-hosed water.
I staggered inside for breakfast at about half eleven. Last night's curry zapped in the microwave for 4 minutes (if only they did this in hospitals there'd be no MRSA) and two cups of tea. Then the re-run of Nigella's warehouse Christmas preparations which just made me think about Harry Hill's TV Burp's, "Creme de lychee / creme de what?" scene.
OMG get back into the garden! On 31 August I went shopping for my Spring bulbs at my favourite garden centre in the whole world. It's in Derbyshire, ofc, and has the best coffee shop where they make fresh hot scones to order. I've disclosed my unnatural addiction to Spring bulbs before. I had packets and packets of bulbs to plant. Here's the laundry list;
And here's the work in progress snap;