Another season. Another picture of the never-sat-upon bench.
Not sat upon by me anyway.
What would I do were I to sit there?
Probably fret about not pruning, mowing, clipping, picking, weeding, trimming, burning, edging, feeding, watering, planting and writing/reading/blogging. Arguably, I could do the last three from the bench, but as I haven't sat on it, I don't know if the house internet stretches that far. Reading doesn't need the internet. I could sit and read. But I would need blinkers to hide the 'hello-we-thought-you'd-missed-us-so-we're-just-going-to-perform-a-little-seed-scattering-dance-in-the-breeze-for-you' weeds. And it would also require a plentiful supply of bribery for Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins, to stop them bothering me until I get up; I suspect they think I'm ill when I stop and need to check that I can still move and that the hand that feeds them hasn't popped her clogs. Or that some other cliche-ridden disaster hasn't befallen me. Their persistence assists my not-sitting behaviour. Ensures it comprehensively. They let me sit on the tractor because they can run around the garden after me. They let me sit in the car and drive off. But they wait anxiously for my return ... and dinner. As healthy lifestyle aids, they are pretty up there. If I sit on the sofa in the kitchen they lick my feet, slobber on my clothes, tail-wag hairs into my coffee and 'sing' plaintively until I get up. So, I am not allowed to rest. Ever. Which is a good thing. For my waist-line. Thankfully, they are not allowed up stairs. What would they think of me trying to lie down and sleep ...
It is a very pretty bench. Cushions would enhance any future sitting plans. Making cushions may however further delay the actual bench sitting goal, at least for the duration of the cushion manufacturing process.
Plus, I would rather be decapitating weeds in the sun than be trapped inside pricking fingers with pins.
Summer time. And the livin' is easy.
High white cloud sunny time.
And soon to be harvesting time.
Sun-bathing time for Bertie Baggins; exhausted after all that must-guard-against-bench-sitting time.
High summer is a good time of year. A bit hot. A bit buggy. But with a promise of autumn apple crumble. And home made apple chutney.
Hi summer! And hello to summer flowers and projects.
A new herb bed. Thanks to the plant sale at Castle Acre Priory.
And for my mediterranean corner, hot geraniums. Which is about as hot as I like summer to get. A manageable heat. One in which you can still walk and garden and read and not melt. Melting is for Italy. Soon. I'm hoping for cool terracotta floors a pillow for my head and a good book.
I have never understood anyone - any parent, that is - who says they dread summer holidays. I love the time to chill; the lack of routine; the catching up on sleep; the sound of singing; the hours spent dreaming; the games; the stories; the unscheduled picnics in the garden; the trips to the seaside; the swing of the hammock; the pyjama days; the days when your feet never wear shoes; the long evenings with wine and laughter and citronella candles and torches to find the croquet balls (!) and barbecued food and salad and berries that explode their sharp, sweet bursts of intense flavour inside your mouth and ice-cream. And above all, I love the togetherness. And the not having to rush.
Littlest loves the hammock. But doesn't love being asked to share her art before it is finished.
Speak to the hand. No words required.
Later: Littlest's latest. Finished.
And the day ... nearly finished.
And the bench drenched in the rays of the setting sun ... still un-sat-upon
Perhaps, I'll dream about my bench and the cushions I'll make for it and a cool evening breeze and cold grass between my toes while I perspire/glow/burn/drip-with-sweat and swat away mozzies in Italy.
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