Signs of Spring

It is very easy to mis-read the signs. I captured these delightful shots weeks and weeks ago on the walk to school.

But mother nature was only teasing. A fresh batch of rain and cold made an appearance just to confirm that winter was still in charge. Last week, however, the mornings suddenly seemed a lot lighter and we basked in glorious sunshine, with the light having a stronger, brighter quality. This morning though, the most compelling and reliable portent of the new season made its first visit. 

You can't fool a blow fly. It knows the exact day and it is the true herald of spring. And so, to the gentle buzzing of its activity, my eyes wandered out to the sunny deck and it was clear the time had come to set to work. When I bought this house the deck was brand new. As with the whole property, everything was beautifully staged and unrealistically clean and neat.

The standard rose are long gone, but the deck itself has served well for sunny breakfasts and general lethargy. But the four years have taken their toll on the planks. They have become mottled and grey. Nor have the years been kind to the outdoor furniture.

Do the makers of such items not suspect that there is a strong possibility that, given the word 'outdoor' in the description, they may be exposed to rain while performing their designated task? Apparently not, because they select a metal frame pretty much guaranteed to rust. So it has been a satisfying day. The table and chairs have been given the heave-ho. The trusty Nilfisk (I know - so cute!) has been dusted off ...

... and the transformation is underway, and coming along very nicely. 

I can't wait to get back into it next weekend to finish the job, and join the hoards at Mitre 10 selecting the perfect new outdoor setting - another sure sign of spring!

The Mind

The mind is an intriguing thing, and must be treated with the utmost of care. I avoid the news and other sources of despairing stories, including those my friends try to relate, because once a thing is seen or heard it is hard to forget. Of course this also relates to quite innocuous bits and pieces of information, too. Which is why my mind often wanders to a friend's husband whenever I shower. I hasten to add  I have no designs on him in the least. I only occasionally see him but an image of him is locked in my brain. This is the result of a conversation about showering and toothbrushing that was had in his absence long ago. The subject came up, heavens knows why, as to whether it is correct to clean one's teeth before or after showering*. His wife shared the very oddest of facts that he in fact does neither, but actually cleans his teeth in the shower - yes, in the shower, with hot water! And so it is that when I think of him I don't recall a charming man, husband and father. No, I see this ...

... which any well read child can tell you is a picture of the Herk-Heimer Sisters, from Dr Suess' Sleep Book. But even the Herk-Heimer Sisters were presumably using cold water up at Herk-Heimer Falls, where the great river rushes and crashes down crags in great gurgling rushes. My mind has made the association - Hot water? For teeth? - and I fear it is locked in forever. 

*The correct answer is, of course, after one's shower; unless as happened to me yesterday, the shower takes a long time to run hot and you are in a hurry to leave the house. And never with hot water.

Sticking At It

I've never been much of one for joining things or doing any particular pastime too actively. It may stem back to my childhood. My parents had encouraged and supported my older siblings in worthy pursuits such as St John's, hockey, soccer, ballet and Brownies. Thankfully, by the time I came along their interest and energy for such things had waned. I never showed a glimmer of interest in sports or clubs and they never suggested I should join any, with one exception. An after school organisation called Busy Bees was held each Wednesday at our church. As my mother was active in the church and on the management board, my participation was required.

At Busy Bees we started each session completing crafts which would be sold to support the overseas missions of the church. I can only hope that my cross-stitched hessian oven cloths went some way towards improving the lives of those with leprosy in The New Hebrides. I always looked forward to Wednesday afternoons, but sadly not because of the opportunity to do good works in a cosy Christian environment. My mother gave me sixpence each week for the collection, and that allowed me to call at the dairy on the way for threepence worth of lollies and still have a coin to drop in the plate. Numbers were dwindling in our inner city church and soon Busy Bees was no more. I never sought a replacement. I have tried a few things over the years, but the reality is I really don't like committing to anything on a regular basis or being a member of an organisation. A walk, a book, a movie, a coffee - when and if I can be bothered - is quite enough to keep me content.

They made you choose a sport at High School - I chose this one because it involves standing in one place, once a year, on athletics day.

That whole getting sweaty thing just wasn't me, and far too much enthusiasm to be natural.

A bit of a personal best - I lasted half a season!

Like all sports much trickier than it looks, and really cold. Much more fun to be had just going up and down on the chairlifts and drinking hot chocolates.

Surprisingly unlike being a mermaid and very tiring, with an unnerving closeness to drowning. 

The clay can be really wobbly and they make you cut your fingernails.