The KHT is off college, with a croaky voice and weariness. Yesterday was her work experience day, which she loves, but afterwards she was so worn out that she collapsed in a heap on the settee and let TV programmes wash over her.
After some decidedly chilly September weather, October feels warmer. As I walked home golden leaves rained down from on high. Around the estates, council workers were tittivating the town - strimming banks, trimming hedges and removing graffiti. The cynic in me wonders if some royal has decided to pay a visit, or more likely they haven't over spent the landscape budget yet, and are using up the surplus in a hurry, before it disappears into a pothole, or two.
Just before the end of lessons we popped over to a nearby school to hand our letters inviting the students to an after-school club which begins next week. We got a lovely reception, as many of the children easily recognised us, and were eager to sign up.
After a quick cup of coffee, Operation Border Replanting swung into action. The positioning of a shrub was a key decision. Technically it is too big for the bed, but it looks so lovely as it catches the sun and has all year interest. We chucked the rule book on garden design on the compost heap and decided it was a worth the compromise.
The grasses have been divided, the leggy pansies and past-their-best-lobelia are already contributing to next years compost.
The pond was constructed soon after we moved into the house, and came with a whole load of plants. These included specimens like Carex Buchananii, which we would probably never have considered. One website describes this plant as looking "strangely like hair." In fact it is so strange that we thought it was dead and nearly threw it away. It only survived because we saw some elsewhere, and realised that it was actually supposed to look like dead hair. We have grown rather fond of our hair-like grass, and named it after a certain American politician.
Well, dear old Carex Buchananii nearly came to a sticky end again, because we overlooked it in the replanting. I had put all the tools away and was tidying up when I noticed it still lying on the flower bed, rather than snugly in it!
This evening we went bellringing in the nearby village that has a name no-one thought twice about before Father Ted...
Most of today was not very significant, but together these small unimportant moments join together to construct my day. Without words, everything would still have happened just as it did. The leaves would still float on the autumn breeze. The sun would still shine through the leaves on the trees. Nasturtiums will still be bragging with their bright blooms. The squirrel would still be swearing at whatever was currently causing offence, from a vantage point high in the boughs of an oak tree. However, no-one else would know. They may experience similar, but they would be unaware of what small events form a typical day in the life of a Daffodil.
Weeks, even months can pass without me writing a blog. The longer the gap, the harder it is to write, as I set a standard that requires sentences of grammatical perfection, and fail... Then there is the detail to consider. Are the events of the day worthy of being recorded? If the insignificant is not shared, then the slightly more important may suffer the same fate. Before we know it, regular occurrences are ignored. Soon to be followed by a casual disregard for the unusual. Then we find ourselves oblivious to the spectacular.
Do not let yourself be drawn into this blindness. Watch the leaves make their unique journey, from the leafy heavens to the ground below. Glory in the colours of October, the vibrant and the muted. Breathe in the musty fermenting odours of fragrant decomposition. Treasure the day. Minute the minutiae.
Here endeth the second day.
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