I was quite happy that it rained all morning, since I had things to do inside, and feel much better about getting on and doing them when I'm not missing out on valuable gardening opportunities. I made a Bakewell tart and a genoa cake, which I can't really comment on yet as I haven't eaten a slice of either. I will report back on the usefulness or otherwise of the recipes when they have been taste tested. I made some honey ice cream as well, and the scrapings I licked out of the machine tasted fine. That lot should keep us going for a while, indeed, require some hefty gardening and long walks to counteract the effects, but I have some heavyweight gardening planned, and it's getting colder. The cats shouted for more food all morning, and as soon as I've finished the last little bit of hedge pruning and bramble cutting I'll be ordering a couple of tonnes of gravel for us to spread about.
After lunch I got the beekeepers accounts more or less up to date, and had another go at getting a butter stain out of a dress I'm rather fond of. I splashed it, dishing up an omelette in a hurry, which was entirely my own fault for being in a hurry instead of practising proper levels of mindfulness, and for not bothering to put on an apron. It is cotton, and the care instructions say to wash on the reverse side, delicate cold wash, blah blah, but I'm gradually escalating the attack. It will be a shame if it ends up with a faded patch on the front, in fact it will be terminal since it's a colour block design that absolutely won't accommodate the grungy, partially faded look, but I can't wear it with a permanent grease stain in the middle of my stomach. At the moment I'm trying laundry soda crystals, which will shift most things, including blood.
All this domesticity kept me within view of the front drive, since the Systems Administrator who is out for the day was expecting a parcel. The delivery firm posted an update on their website yesterday saying they had tried to deliver but we were out, and that they had put a card through the door. That was a naked lie, since there was definitely no card, we were both in, and I was not merely at home but cutting the brambles by the entrance. A van really could not have got past without my noticing, nor past the kitchen window without our seeing while we were having lunch. The SA rebooked delivery for today, but since it's now a quarter past five and there's been no sign of it I'm not optimistic. The vendor asks for customer feedback on the delivery service, and unless a van suddenly appears in the next three quarters of an hour or so it's not going to be positive.
It makes me cross when courier firms lie about having called. This isn't the easiest house to find, so if from time to time a driver genuinely can't locate us, maybe because they are new on the round, that's fair enough. Contact us for instructions on how to get here if needs be, but don't pretend you've been when we know you haven't. At least one delivery company is now putting the boot on the other foot and posting up a photograph of the front door to prove they really have been here, if they call and we are out, or so far down the garden we don't hear them. A sort of twenty first century twist on the folks songs where the girl leaves springs of broom or a ribbon by her sleeping lover to prove that she was there earlier, only he slept through it.
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