Ye Gods, but it's been a long week.
I have decided that I shall skulk off at 4pm and that's that. I want to get home early enough to collapse on the bed for an hour before we go out again: we are off to Leytonstone to meet up with jfs and ellefurtle's sister, Alix (some of you will know her, I'm sure), who is heavily pregnant. Due day is tomorrow, in fact. We are going for a curry so, in the absence of a catcher's mitt, I think we should try and restrict her to nothing more spicy than a chicken korma, or risk having to run down the high street screaming" The ababy's coming! The baby's coming!"
Furtle, as aunt in waiting, has been looking up suitable gifts. She shied away from buying a Yoda romper suit bearing the legend "wipe my bum, you must" and went for something else instead. Happily I was on hand to talk her into getting a Batman romper suit, so my first act from behind the scenes as disreputable uncle is already complete.
I suppose that tomorrow we shall have to do some gardening. In the year since we first planted any, I'd forgotten that borlotti beans have triffid DNA. They are slow to germinate, but then relentless. We have a bunch in pots that have grown six inches in the last week, after spending a fortnight seemingly dormant. It is probably too early to actually plant them outside, but they will need separating into bigger pots.
Last weekend we put a load of shrubs/bushes and grasses into the garden; we will soon have to add something to the new fence for a lot of it to climb up. Sadly, I think I overdid the pruning on the rambling rector rose, which, it seems is the only rose in Christendom that you don't prune back to a stump. It's still alive, but I think we are two to three years away from it blooming again.
Nonetheless, I have a good feeling about the garden for the third year in cussession, despite the complete lack of proper winter that should have primed the various plants' inner clocks.
I must tired. I am contemplating gardening.