Harvest home

The leaves have lost their green.
They’ve turned a marmalade orange.
The woods in the wood shed.
The beans have run their course.
The strawberries have filled the patch with a blanket of foliage, not a piece of fruit in sight.
The white rose bush has chucked out 9 delicious white roses.
The geraniums are salmon pink and a vulgar carmine.
The Michaelmas daisies have pushed out their purple flowers.
The lawns been scarified, mowed and seeded.
I’ve got my first booking for next year.
I am setting about creating an invite for the Jew Do, at the end of September 2019
The old git’s eating a sausage sandwich.
I’m resting for a bit before I shlep the hoover upstairs to vacuum away the cobwebs.
You know its autumn when the spiders arrive. Down the curtain they come, walking past me on their high legs. Of course I bloodiwell scream.
I ask for forgiveness when a spider gets sucked into the hoover pipe.
We went to see SIX yesterday. A musical at THE ARTS. I am too old for whooping and cheering coming from the youngus behind me. I put my fingers in my ears and just heard the screamer say “I know you hate me, but I love it SOOOO much”
It wasn’t bad bad, but it did not merit clapping out of time and hollering like an audience at the Super Bowl.
The apologetic audience member turned my digestion. We went home on the 9.45 train leaving the musical dawter standing in the middle of Leicester Square.
Jim’s car has just passed it’s MOT and mine is out of petrol.
We have two away days planned. Planned but not paid for.
Uppsala in Sweden to stay with very, very, very old friends, and Stratford. That’s the poetical one not the one at the end of the Blackwall Tunnel.
I’ve bought Amalfi Lemons, on line, for my planned Italian cheese cake.
A batch of radio/ voice overs and charity work are done and dusted.
That’s how we can pay for the two upcoming trips.
I’ve bought shampoo to encourage my dawters curls.
I’ve bought a vegan cook book.
I’ve bought a pair of pink trainers, good for my high insteps.
I’m shopping in the Italian grocery for olives and rustic bread for the Italian meal I’m making for two dear old friends. They both have their teeth so crunch is on the menu.
I am taking my 86 year old friend out for lunch, he says he’s paying. We’ll see about that….
Strictly Come Prancing is on tonight. I sit far too close to the screen, that way I can learn the moves so that when they ask me I’ll be able to partner up with Giovanni.
Huge sigh. Up them dancers with the Sebo and it’s sooper sucker.
A bath
A read
Another Saturday gone.
Others measure their lives by coffee spoons, I measure mine by the Hygienist.
80 days to Christmas. 169 days till my 70th birthday. 17 days till my next hair appointment.
I did think I should let my hair go grey, the old git doesn’t give a fig, my dawter doesn’t give a hoot, and I don’t give a shiny shit, but the trip to Brighton and the two hours of unmitigated attention is worth its weight in silver.
That’s it. The cats sitting on the table having shared the ‘oosbinds sausage sandwich, and I’m nearly ready for my cleaning duties.
If I had a cleaner I would ask Lily Tomlin to do it, then I would make a pot of tea and talk with her, sod the dusting, conversation is more important.