Whisky glass topped up? Toasted those sonsie faced hagii?
Slainte mhath!
The Meddlesome Wife, in keeping with the honoured traditions of the ‘auld alliance,’ has been taking a tiny sip (or two) of some of France’s finest, and is reflecting upon the day.
Earlier, Our Hero (after one bowl of porridge and soft-boiled egg) took himself off to have his photograph taken for his disabled person's parking badge – something he has not felt he could justify until now. (I think that this is a good sign – he clearly thinks he is going to be around long enough to take advantage of it.) Cool wrap-around shades in place, hat with flaps pulled firmly down and gloves smoothed on, he and The Hounds set off together.
With the snow mostly thawed, for the first time in months, The Meddlesome is able to venture into and, more importantly, see clearly what now just passes for a garden.
From under the stairs she takes a cardboard box - a box that has been burning on her conscience. It is the box with the tulip bulbs. In a rush of extravagant October optimism she ordered hundreds of bulbs, the flowers of which would be a Chelsea dream of subtle shades of cream and black and green. In her mind’s eye she was envisioning some sort of perfect Spring (and, probably, some sort of perfect gardener).
Many of the bulbs are, of course, beyond redemption but, depressingly, many of them are looking very healthy and cannot, with an easy conscience, be slipped onto the compost heap (from whence they do tend to come back to haunt you … she knows, does Meddlesome).
Then there are all those leaves to tackle, that black slime of leaves which is revealed now that the snow has melted. And the ground is still frozen. Even the compost in the largest containers is frozen.
But she rakes. And she scrapes. And she lugs bags of new compost. And her new gloves are ruined.
Soon, however, most of the bulbs are planted and there is, just, the beginning of order.
It is a weary Meddlesome Wife who straightens her back when Our Hero and The Hounds return.
She would hobble to greet him but there is one last bulb to plant.
And thus she misses the call from one of our SMP’s offices.
She rattled a cage, just a very little, and an MP popped out.
Fortunately, there are such things as e-mails and the phone will ring again tomorrow.
Slainte Mhath to you all.
PS I have also had a hint today that there may be a lot more PDT coming soon on the NHS and, therefore, ‘The Meddlesome Wife’ may be fighting a battle that has already been won.
We will see.
