Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Spring is coming...

Time for the lawnmower to come out of the shed. Oh wait, it's still half-broken from September. And the grass is really too damp to mow. And now it looks like the lawn has had a bad bad shave with a blunt scabby razor... still, smells good!

Time for birds to get frisky. All day long. This morning two pigeons actually bumped into my window as a result of flapping and flitting so much. The female was having none of it, you see. Pigeotto chased her from tree to tree and eventually settled on a TV aerial. Stable.

Time for clothing confusion. The brave wear shorts and t-shirts, the lame hold onto their scarves and 4000 denier tights. Some shops keep the heating pumped up, others whack on the air-con. Spring is usually a sweaty and/or shivery combo. Be prepared!

Time for sweeping. Any kind of sweeping. Difficult though because the dirt is sticky and cold from the winter, hidden in the shadows and in the cracks. So many dead thorns and spikeys too. Must. Brush. Away. Winter.

Time for uber-leg-moisturisation. Ugh. The powdery white skin on my calves quakes in fear of being exposed after the long winter. This is why I heart leggings.

Time for the washing line. A two to three person job to put up - depending on rustiness - so in our case, it takes fourteen. Then realising the sun's not strong enough to dry 1cm square of washing so having to plop a load in the tumble drier after 6 hours outside. *Global warming warning*

Time for daffodils. And time for them to die. Tip: Never pick daffs from a Brownie hut garden. Brown Owl will shout at you and make you feel so so awful (even at 22 years old.). Think of the children.

Time for sunshine and showers. 'Changeable', innit.

I look forward to the sun on my skin and a breeze that doesn't pierce my skin like an icicle! Hmph.

Jordie is happy in any weather (but is useless at helping putting up the washing line).

(Kathryn Beadle © 2011)

Tuesday, 1 March 2011


Radio murmur slows the rush
of morning chaos.
Bran or wheat or other husk
in the bowl of promise
but the milk is warm.