Z wallows in domesticity

Storms Freya, Gareth and Hannah seem to merge into one another. \We used to be quite happy to call it a gale. Perhaps we could just call all the winds Gale and have done with it? “Gale’s feeling a bit fresh tonight” or “Gale’s blowing a right hoolie!” It’s put me off gardening, anyway, even in the greenhouse. There are just the broad beans, coriander, parsley and sweet peas that i sowed a month ago. I used to be so excited to sow seeds and watch them come up, to prick out the seedlings and grow them on, but I might buy in the tender plants as I did last year. Those for the greenhouse, that is.

I’m feeling more dully ancient than ever, having just bought a new ironing board cover. The foamy underlay of the old one had worn so thin that the diamond pattern on the board itself was showing through, and the cover was somewhat stained. I have, at any rate, caught up on the ironing – though I washed two tablecloths today, so I’ll have to start again tomorrow. I’m so enjoying using the lovely old tablecloths all the time that I don’t actually mind the ironing in the least. I have also – I think I’m certainly in domestic goddess territory here as I can hardly imagine many men, let alone gods, caring about this – bought drying racks to put onto the Aga. I’ve never really had any convenient option but to use a tumble dryer in the winter, as I have nowhere to dry clothes indoors, but this is splendid. It’s two racks, which fit one over the other, and I fold and lay the laundry on top, and there’s also an extra rail for the front (giving two rails) to hang more stuff over. It all dries surprisingly quickly. And, of course, in the summer when the Aga is off, I’d be using the washing line anyway. The racks are very sturdy, enamelled steel and expensive to boot, but I haven’t needed to use the dryer since buying them.

We went out for lunch today, as we aim to do once a week or so, and had fish and chips, with the result that we don’t feel about to eat much tonight. So we’ll have the terrine and salad that we would have had for lunch tomorrow. If the chickens were laying, we might have eggs but, having been good, dutiful girls for nearly a year, they’ve gone off lay. Rose is quite sure her chickens are laying away somewhere, but we can’t find the eggs. She’s suggested that her bantams might be roommates with my hens while she’s making frequent trips down South with Lawrence for his cancer treatment, which will work well as they all get on happily together. It’s not as if she can’t come and give them treats whenever she likes. Boy and I look after them anyway when she’s away, of course.

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