turning poo, squashing dirt

There I was, bravely striding into my third day running of intense cleaning. It was true that the lounge floor was now clean and clear of crap and that I'd put on my domestic goddess hat at just after 7am and whipped up ginger spice biscuits in time to put in Fionn's school lunch box. It was true that 176+ pieces of dubious possibly once food stuff had been lifted from the dining room. We were all wearing sock pairs.

Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. The washing had gone out and the rain was ignored - another rinse would be fine. I was still inside.

So the washing machine made a stronger statement. You should be outside in your garden it said. In a kind of passive aggressive language. Passive-aggressive behaviour from a washing machine involves it refusing to carry on, mid-cycle.

I got the message. Outside in the garden where I belong, I put some chickenwire on stakes for one of the roses to grow up. I weeded the once infamous fleahouse which is now just a pile of old chicken poo and straw which has sprouted it's own potatoes and grass and, as a special treat, a dock plant. I weeded one of the planned garlic beds and hiffed some old chicken poo and straw on it. I lifted the raspberry plants and hoped the oxalis hasn't left babies in the soil. The raspberries can go out the front. Likewise the blackcurrants can move out front and leave more room for the cabbage trees (which will not be moved, they have our children's placentas underneath them) and the plum tree.

I turned the compost heap and redistributed some air and some worm colonies. I collected a ridiculous number of pieces of plastic flotsam which were laying around the garden.

Tomorrow I'll be chatting to the washing machine repair person. Again.


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