A scattalogical story

A coffee in the park.
Breakfast in the garden.
The tomatoes are beginning to turn red.
The dawter is cooking dinner.
The old git’s car is still in the garage, it’ll cost the same as a fleet of Skoda Karoq’s.
I walked the orchard and found a golden delicious windfall, sweet and crunchy.
But there’s a heavy silence like the earth has disappeared up its own fundament.
Yesterday I collected the ‘oosbinds car whilst he was trying to install a new internet hub. We are supposed to have even faster broad band, although I couldn’t give a monkeys about the speed of the signal, isn’t that part of the fall out of Covid? A day is as long as a day is long, a night as long as a night. Fill those hours how you may, but make sure they are serving your soul. My day ends at 2.00a.m and begins again around 8.00a.m. Sometimes 9.00. But when there’s nothing pressing to get up for my super king sized mattress can hold me in its thrall.
This morning, however, was a trip to Nigel’s farm. Nigel has a stable, is married to Jennifer, and is a very well intentioned gentleman. Thirty years ago, when the old git was a young git and we had what is laughingly called disposable income, the thespian decided to stop lying on his CV and actually learn how to ride a horse.
He was very good and he and Nigel got on famously. Nigel only has two horses now but enough land upon which they can graze and deliver dung on a daily basis, which is just what we need for our depleted garden.
So we jumped into the ‘oobinds new/old car, the seats turned down at the back. We drove to the roundabout, left down the hill, across the main road and down the lane to turn left at the pub then right past the school, garage and camping-site before parking by two metal gates. Nigel was there on his tractor, showed us how to unlock the gate, strung with barbed wire, and left us to shovel seven sacks of shit.
The car laden with warm manure, got us to the shops and back incident free. The garage had succeeded in repairing the old motor. I unloaded the shopping whilst the ‘oosbind unloaded the seven sacks of horsy doo-doo, by which time the weather had caught up with the forecast. The heavens opened – as my mother would say – but that did not deter the ancient gardener from cultivating and dressing the double dug plots with warm manure.
Now according to those who know the moisture content determines how hot a pile of shite can get. Too much moisture drowns the bacteria before they generate much heat. A combination of temperature, moisture, and air can create a pile that heats rapidly and spontaneously combusts. Of course the bilge pouring out of the Palace of Westminster should have prepared me for the possibility of spontaneous combustion caused by all that bullshit and hot-air.
Who knew that dung could be so dangerous?
So now as the clouds hang heavy, and the news hangs even heavier, I await tonights dinner of portobello mushrooms and a root bake. I will now sip on my filtered coffee whilst munching on a couple of dates of sweetness. The candles are lit so the kitchen has a gentle glow, my co-habitee just asked whether I wanted a stove or fire tonight, worra choice, but has left the kitchen to peruse the plots and see what effect the rain has had on the ordure.
It’s Thursday, Anna was outside the supermarket so I thought it was Friday. She’s doing three days now. Times are hard. The rain is a steady tap tap on the sky light, Autumn has set in and I’m wearing my big pink sox reserved for chilly nights. Dennis wants biscuits but he’s got a big fat belly from my Jewish mothering so he’s been put on a diet and will have to wait for his dinner when we have ours. Then the old git will put on our superfast broadband and we’ll watch episode three of ‘Ratched’ and frighten ourselves to death, having already frightened ourselves to death with the ten-o’clock-news.
My partner has just read this blog and said ‘good.’
I said ‘Only good?’
And he said ‘Yeah, nothing revolutionary, just a nice story about shite.’
That’s my boy.