Fog, fog and more fog, we have stayed at home these last few days. Lucy has been hobbling around taking her medicine, why do they hand out horse sized pills for dogs? She hates the cold weather and will only go out to do what needs to be done and then comes galloping in skidding across the kitchen floor.
|Look at those nails|
Actually the sun came out yesterday afternoon, so I decided to start emptying the compost, we have a mole in the garden and the large flower bed has suddenly started to look very 'dug', little holes appearing in it. There are moles everywhere on the green, in the fields, and I am hoping they don't eat all the expensive bulbs I have planted. The thought of the coming gardening year always excites me, starting plants, should I get a greenhouse, or will plugs of tomato plants do? My mind always dances around flowers and the buzz of bees, now sadly in danger. Will we in the end have little oasis's of gardens in which the protected honey and bumble bee survive?
Finished my last Phil Rickman's book yesterday late afternoon, sat in my armchair opposite the church window and a frisson of fear went down my spine as I looked at the church and thought of the 'undead', a subject that Rickman had been writing about. Thoughts of the last burial there, an extra large coffin apparently so the grave digger said.
Which reminds me of another grave digger I read about the other day. He had found several beautiful Saxon brooches in 1977 but had not thought much of them, and so had put them in his lunch box with his address and name on them and they lay undiscovered in the vestry chest until 1980 when the new vicar realised what they were. The story ends happily with the grave digger being paid a handsome sum of money for the treasure trove he had unearthed.