I had decided. I’d decided to defer my decision.
I’m still going on about my veggie patch. I don’t know what I want to put in there, or how much more room I really need or how to divide it up. So, for this year, I thought I’d make 8 beds, each a couple of metres wide and twenty-something feet long (I”m bilingual, you see and think in metres or feet, whichever is easiest at that moment) and see how it goes.
I went out to pace it out. And the Sage followed me, all cheery and smiling, to tell me that he has arranged the loan of a cement mixer and the help of a very good friend, and we can put in the (permanent) concrete paths within the next week or two.
This is like having a commitment-phobe partner who, after several years of fobbing off suggestions of moving in together, suddenly comes round with sheaves of property details to view, a wedding booking form, rings and arrangements already made for a honeymoon. You’ve wanted this for ages, so you can hardly protest now that you need a little more time and how about next year?
However, right now I’m off to church to make up Mothering Sunday posies to be given out in the service tomorrow. That’s guesswork too – I sent out an email a week ago, asking for flowers, greenery and helpers. I’ve had two replies. I explained that I’d appreciate replies as I need to know what to expect.
I don’t think I’m a control freak, it’s just so much easier if you have some idea in advance. I’ve bought 18 bunches of daffodils and have picked more. One has to guess how many posies to make up anyway, so at least I’d like something as a definite.
Sod it. I’ll take along a packet of chocolate biscuits. So at least those of us who do turn up can have a spot of self-indulgence (though, the amount of cake I’ve eaten in the past week, I have no excuse at all).