A partridge is laying eggs in our chicken run. A broody hen is sitting on some eggs, but evidently a bit intermittently because whenever she wanders off for a while, the partridge nips in to the nest. The Sage thinks we might as well eat them. It seems a bit mean, but … well, if I hardboil them and serve them with celery salt #memo to self, must buy celery salt – then I could pretend they’re quail’s eggs.
I was trying to fill in a claim form today for an agricultural grant for our fields. I thought I’d done it right, but then it said I hadn’t completed something that I couldn’t understand at all, and nor could I understand the document that was supposed to help me. So I rang the helpline. It took some time, very nice young (I’m sure she was) woman was very helpful as well she might be, and in the end it turned out, I don’t understand why, that our claim would have been rejected anyway, though we’ve always received it in the past. Oh well, easy come easy go, and I was quite relieved to click on ‘abandon claim’ after wasting a mere hour and a half on it.
This afternoon, I tackled my wardrobe. And my floordrobe and my chaise longuedrobe (I know, darlings, some people have a chair in their bedroom but I need more space for my stuff). I filled four binbags with discarded clothes and have taken them to the Scope receptacle in the village recycling centre (it’s the bottlebank otherwise in fact), I was quite ruthless, for me. Mind you, I had offered a third of my wardrobe space to the Sage and I find that I might not be able to keep my promise, once everything’s hung up, so we may have to think again. Thing is, I’ve thrown away all the clothes that are currently too big for me. So I cannot put on any weight or I’d have to buy new clothes, and that would be such a cop-out.
I finally threw away the last 60s dress that I still have, a sleeveless pink shift. I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t got several moth holes in. I also threw away a cream linen kaftan from 1970 and a jacket, part of a suit that the Sage’s tailor made for me in 1973. Truly ruthless you see, and I feel a pang as I type – but last week I threw away my first AppleMac, so that’s proof, if needed, that I’m determined. There was one garment I didn’t throw away, from nostalgia. On the wardrobe floor (not at all the same thing as a floordrobe) was a pair of jeans. I looked at the label … age 13 it said, and I remembered one time putting on a pair of jeans from the pile of clean washing, doing them up, finding the legs were a bit tighter than I remembered and realising that I’d put on Al’s trousers. He was a very thin lad (and still is, 20-odd years on) and it was the first time I realised that maybe I wasn’t as fat as I thought I was. I put them on today – I could do up the button but not the zip, so now I have something to work towards. Is it a bit unrealistic, for mildly porky Z to think she might get into the jeans of her onetime 13-year-old son? Yes, frankly, but that won’t stop me from keeping them and trying. And I didn’t throw out any other clothes that are too small either. Boundless optimism at the Zedery as always.
I loved that Mac. I may not have used it for 15 years, but I still loved it.
I still haven’t written out directions to here. I will darlings, I will. Trust me. I’ve promised them to Tim, anyone else who’d like them please email.