Not a Happy Bunny

It had to happen eventually, working like a madwoman in the garden had to lead to some injury or other. It did. Excessive sawing and secateuring at an ancient rosemary bush’s thick and convoluted stems did for my right hand. The bush grows in a raised bed along the wall with my neighbours, all the while I was sawing away I was cursing and telling the bush to "come on”, “give already”; two thirds of the way through I yelped in pain, either my tools were too blunt or my hand just doesn’t have the strength it once did, suddenly my wrist and thumb were on fire and I had to give up. I heard my neighbour potter in her own grounds, but she forbore to get involved, for which I was immensely grateful.

I am really hard at it, at least, I was; luckily we are having a few rain showers and I can’t do much outside anyway today, something else for which I am immensely grateful. There is something obsessive about my need to work outside. Paul has another ailment which stops him working and I’m doing it all myself, turning heavy compost, mulching, pruning, weeding, lugging heavy bags and mountains of brush to be taken to the dump eventually, if I’m lucky and get help; otherwise I’ll have to hire a skip, which is expensive. The thing is that without help I simply cannot cope any more; I have a big birthday coming up which means that I am going to be less and less able physically. Already I am surprised at how tired I often feel. I was thinking of telling my doctor about that but then I know what she would say: “you are not in the first flush of youth, what do you expect?” It’s true, I am stupidly unwilling to let age stop me and sit back on my haunches and retire to the old ladies’ corner gracefully.

The fact remains, if I can’t find regular and capable help, I must give up the house and garden and move to somewhere more suitable. The idea appals me, I love my house sitting in what used to be the centre of a beautiful garden in a magnificent location. I have been just so fortunate. No doubt I’d have no trouble selling up but where could I go? Nearer to my son? That would be sensible but it also means giving up. I could try and hire a company to make my garden less labour intensive, swapping large flower beds for hard landscaping. Whatever I decide to do needs careful deliberation. The one thing I feel unable to do is letting it all go to rack and ruin, closing my eyes to it.

I really feel like moaning today. I can just about type with the index finger of my right hand so I’ll continue. This damned virus doesn’t seem to realise that it’s not wanted and the numbers in the UK are still frighteningly high. I think I am actually now afraid of getting back into the world; I have the most troublesome dreams when I manage to sleep at all, often to do with overcoming huge barriers to getting home. Last night I lost track of my friend who was dependant on me to get her to the station; I kept ending up on the wrong platform and in the wrong station myself and never connected with her at all.

Depression is setting in, life is far too complicated. Although I have happily withdrawn from the burden of normal demands for the past twelve weeks, the thought of remaining entirely on my own for months yet is traumatic. No wonder my nights are disturbed. I dreamt of my daughter the other night, begging for help with something. In my dream she laughed and vanished.

The only good thing is that it’s summer, the days are long and bright and I welcome the odd rainy day. The earth was so dry that I could hardly get a fork in and the birds found it difficult to peck for worms and seeds. Nature helps too, apparently the air in cities has cleared, pollution is diminished and wildlife is taking over the spaces vacated by man. If only we could learn from this and allow nature its rightful place again. What will we take away from this catastrophe? Will we allow our Earth to recover or simply carry on where we left off when it’s all over?

One last thought, a good one: I have prepared a Mediterranean vegetable mess with garlic and chalots and a slice of my delicious meat loaf to go with Singaporean noodles for my dinner tonight. If nothing else brings pleasure, perhaps a pleasant meal makes for a welcome change. Cheers!

The Dream

She knew she had to hurry if she wanted to get off in time to catch the train, but there were so many things she had to do first. The three others were ready to leave the house. It was a wild night, rain lashing  the window panes, adding to her feeling of dread. She was breathing hard, the pressure mounting.

The others left; the man looked back at her angrily, his face a grimace of impatience.

She was very late when she finally locked the front door behind her, pushing her bicycle into the road. The rain and wind caught at her, as she mounted her bike, trying to push her back.

She reached the four-lane boulevard; traffic was heavy, the wet asphalt black and shiny in the bright headlights and street lamps, large plate glass shop fronts mirrored and increased the busyness tenfold. She managed to weave  her way through lines of cars and buses, overtaking knots of cyclists, who swerved out into her lane at the same time as she was trying to pass them.

Her legs pumped furiously, heart pounding and throat aching with the effort of breathing, she raced the race of her life.

At the station the train was still on the platform. Dishevelled, panting, the sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades, she jumped off her bike and was about to lift it into the guards’ carriage when she looked up and saw the man standing at the open door to their compartment, his arm beckoning her on imperiously, a look of fury mixed with disgust on his face.

She stopped abruptly, put down the bike again. Dimly she heard a whistle being blown. Her right hand let go of the handlebar of her bike, and slowly rose into the air in one smooth and graceful movement, two fingers sticking up triumphantly.

A few seconds later she took the handlebar again. turned the bike round in a semicircle and wheeled it back down along the platform. She never once looked back and therefore missed entirely the look of utter, dumbfounded, open-mouthed astonishment on his face.