Earth tenants.

What is the meaning of life?
One thing I know for sure is that one of the meanings must be gardening, whether for food or just for the pleasure of growing things. If I am feeling tangled inside, cross, mentally lying in a ditch: whatever — getting my hands into soil helps.
I haven't always had a garden: flats in London had elaborate window boxes, or a jungle of interior planting. Sometimes I shared a garden, or borrowed someone else's when they weren't looking. In any case, I was always in contact with plantage of some sort.
This is our old house. When we bought it there was not so much as a geranium on the balcony. We dug some illicit holes and planted vines, imported potted trees and filled the balcony with pot grown veg and flowers.
After a while the urge to put a fork into deep soil took over and I spent many weeks following up leads about spurious garden plots around the town. Eventually we did find a plot just outside a village and many happy hours were spent removing oak roots and planting fruit trees. Now we have moved to 'the Hothouse' I have more garden than I can deal with, and the piece of land haunts me somewhat. This year I'll get there . . .
Why am I rambling . . . oh yes, the meaning of life, and being a temporary dweller on this planet.
Much as I love our garden and spend large amounts of time in it, I am aware, of course, that there will be a point that that the garden becomes someone else's. Or rather, they will borrow it for a length of time, and then someone else and so on. (I just hope they don't cut the pomegranates down.)
We are just tenants, the trees will outlive us, hopefully the ones we are planting now will see
a couple of generations of humans.
When I visited Mum in the home last time, she was naturally frustrated at being there, and having to have left her home and garden. We have planted a couple of small trees in the magnificent grounds of the home: next time I will see if we could 'borrow' a small patch of ground and make her a garden there. It's the same soil type as her own garden, the same species of birds, the same weather patterns, just removed a few miles away.

Post for no great reason

Yesterday I met a philosophising tyre-sales man.
I showed him the balding front tyres of our filth-mobile, and said 'are these dead or nearly dead'. He said, 'we are all but close to death' and smiled serenely. He also didn't try and sell me any new ones on the spot, but said they would be all right for another month or so . . . this is unusual surely. I put it down to the end of the world myself.
I feel odd today: just had a haircut, I think she cut off some optimism strands with the hair. Good cut though.
I know I have blogged this before, but . .  . the words come back sometimes—on days like this.
My dear friend and partner on advertising nightmare photo shoots once mentioned how strange it is that one can experience so many moods in one day.
I slept badly, leaning heavily to the left imagining clinging to a scratchy hillside in the wind. Woke at 6.30 as the train passed, drank tea, wrote in bed with hot water bottle, did exercises—all good. Ate toast - good, cleared up, boring but life-affirming; hoed weeds, excellent.
Depressing but useful email arrived with regard to my current artistic endeavors. Day suddenly full of what is it all about questions leaping up and down like dog fleas. Sat in bed again as the wind was too cold to do things I had promised myself I would do. Started a difficult letter, then it was time to go to the hairdressers and confess the reason I have a chunk of hair missing above one ear was to do with saving money.
Now at home after dog walk and cake - a little better, but a certain hysteria seems to be hiding in the corners of the house. Yes, it's got me. Will have to post a very silly thing that makes me and Ezra laugh—thank you Nick!

Important public announcement

Aw . . . the vid's been removed from youtube. Anyway, I've left the post.

Hello there,
inspired by a link of how to peel a potato in seconds via the Daily Mail sent to me by Penny, (I assume in irony . . .) I had a quick look for other vital time saving items on youtube. Thought this could help anyone planning a party event: I particularly like the slip of speech around the middle somewhere, and the use of the words 'feeding each other' - oddly creepy . . .
The newspaper also helpfully told me that I might spend two and a half months brushing my teeth in my life, or three years cooking. Makes one think . . . four months in the loo? four years in the loo? depending on your digestion; seven years queuing in the post office, if you happen to live in our town.
Just as well we don't actually have to lump whatever the activity is into one time slot. Imagine, having to sit in your bank manager's office for two months explaining why your account is out of control, or . . . a hangover that lasts for eight months, or eight years, again depending on your alcohol consumption . . . six years looking for your wallet/keys/dog/where you parked the car.