A couple of nights ago, when opening the door to invite Eloise cat in – “Eloise, prettiest of cats, darling cat whom I love with all my heart, would you care to come in now?” is what she likes to hear – I surprised a hedgehog ambling over the paving. I went to get it some cat food on a plate, but it had gone by the time I returned. But I put the food out anyway and, next morning, it had vanished. This morning, most of the previous evening’s food had gone, which I took as a good sign because a fox or a cat or a rat would have eaten all of it.
I am getting daily emails from the local hedgehog sanctuary about looking after hedgehogs at this time of the year and I should actually read them, because I don’t know if I’m doing it any favours at a time when they should be able to find worms and so on. I will, I will…tomorrow.
My order from the garden centre arrived, so I’ve potted up the 40 bedding plants it contained. I’ll put them in tubs and borders in a week or two, when they’ve grown a bit. I was going to plant out veggies but the wind was a bit keen, so I mowed the lawn instead. Wince the gardener is nervous of coming, he thinks he isn’t supposed to. It would be fine as there’s plenty of room for him to work without coming into close contact with anyone but he applies rules strictly and I wouldn’t worry him for anything. So I’m mowing what grass I can. The lawn didn’t look that long but two lengths filled the box and two boxfuls filled the barrow, which LT emptied. After a strenuous half hour, I hadn’t done much more than a third. I won’t leave it to get so long again – though I’m sure Wince will be back in a week or two anyway.
Ach. Rambling post. I’ll get back to my book in a minute. Having finished the Hilary Mantel, I’ve gone on to one of my book club books, having had a fail so far on the March one. I will read them both, as well as the others I’ve bought, of course. I still buy books as if I read several in a week, though now it takes me days to read any of them. I don’t know why this is. Speed of reading, concentration, no longer becoming engrossed, being more engaged by real life than by fiction, other distractions – or possibly all of these things? Anyway. The present book is A Man Called Ove, by Fredrik Backman.