23rd March,
This morning I felt some small happiness as I stood in our bedroom window, forehead on the cold glass and watched as the sun rose over the city. It was a beautiful sight and I feel very lucky to have such a wonderful view from our house. Yesterday was a tough day, yesterday I was allowed to visit my Grandad in Bristol. It felt very strange to leave the area, I was constantly expecting the police to stop me and demand to know where I was going. My Grandad is 91 and has Alzheimers, he has been ill with a chest infection and is now receiving end of life care, hence my being allowed to visit. I felt like my heart was breaking, seeing him bed bound and looking so frail. I struggled so hard not to cry in front of him, I didn’t want to make him sad and I knew if I started I wouldn’t stop. He told me he had had a wonderful life and not to be sad, I told him I would miss him so much. I can barely see the keyboard through my tears just writing this.
I haven’t been sleeping very well again which I guess is understandable. I woke up at 3am this morning and Fanny leapt at the opportunity for a chat (Fanny being the name of my annoying inner voice) This mornings topic was Rhubarb and where in the garden to plant it, or more precisely, listing all the places not to plant it which pretty much ruled out the entire bloody garen. I have been obsessing over this for weeks since my last gardening stint ended with the revelation that I hate gardening (see post dated 2nd March) I now have a load of rhubarb plants sitting in buckets that need planting today and nowhere ready to put them. The Rhubarb I planted last year died, so clearly that’s not a good spot, everywhere else involves heavy digging and removal of lawn. Well, sort of lawn, really it’s an uneven area covered in weeds with a few odd blades of grass that all the neighbourhood cats like to crap on. It’s going to be hard graft, but the bit I dread the most is the retching and heaving involved in removing the cat turds. Really what our garden needs a massive overhaul or preferably emptying into a skip and starting again with a team of gardeners instead of me.
After spending so long in the car yesterday I was quite looking forward to stretching my legs on the walk to school this morning. We have a lovely route alongside a river, beside a park and victorian gardens, past the cathedral and over another river. The round trip is 5.2k and takes me just over an hour, I usually enjoy it. This morning not so much, Agatha and Elizabeth kept up a constant stream of complaints for pretty much the entire walk there. Elizabeth complained because she had waited until the moment we were leaving the house to announce her school shoes were suddenly too tight, the shoes she wore instead were rubbish, she didn’t like them, she couldn’t run in them, why couldn’t she have worn a different pair? I am not sure exactly why she didn’t chose a different pair to wear but it was my fault apparently. Agatha complained because she hated her bag, she hated her lunchbox, she hated school, she hated her socks that kept falling down – the socks I told her not to wear because they would fall down. She also hated walking, carrots and me. Eleanor just lagged so far behind that when I wasn’t addressing the barrage of discontent I was shouting at her to walk faster or we would be late. By the time I waved them off I was ready to explode. So much for walking being relaxing.
Perhaps taking a pick axe to the garden will relieve some pent up frustrations and give me some head space, Rhubarb here I come.
Cold tea and muddy wellies 