It rained this morning as forecast, the first drops falling as I went out to let the chickens into their run, and measure up for a support for a herbaceous clematis in the sloping border. I'd been saving up a list of wet weather jobs (which has not yet extended to the vacuuming or the ironing) so that was fine.
I went to B&Q first off, to buy a hose. Our's is slightly too short to reach the far corner of the back garden, and I'm about to have to cut off the last ten feet because they are leaking through tiny holes, that put out a surprising amount of water in the course of an hour, making the greenhouse floor wet when I don't necessarily want it to be, and watering my legs while I'm trying to water the plants. B&Q still had hoses, but no half inch hose to hose connectors that I could see. Maybe there's a spare one in the shed. I tried to stop the leaks by running duct tape round the hose, but that didn't do any good at all, apart from converting the fine spray to a heavy dribble. Then I stopped at Marriages animal feed store to stock up on layers' pellets and mixed corn, and allowed myself to feel slightly smug that I can still lift 20 kilos.
After that I went into Colchester to pay two cheques into the bank, and call at the Arts Centre for tickets to a couple of gigs. I had made sure to time the trip so as to arrive at the Arts Centre after ten-thirty, since their booking office doesn't open until then, and was rather bemused to push on their door at ten to eleven and find it still locked. I fiddled with the door for a bit, in case I was being exceptionally dim about what I had to push, pull, or turn, then peered in through the window to see three people sitting at desks. Good-oh, they hadn't closed for the day due to staff shortages, then. They must have heard me rattling or seen my plaintive face at the window, and someone got up to let me in, remarking that the door was still locked. The hand-made-out-of-tofu theme continued, as none of their computers would consent to print tickets, and I had to be content with a handwritten receipt on a compliments slip, and the promise that they'd be posted to me free of charge, today. Assuming they can get the computers to work.
The way out of the multi-storey car park was blocked by a woman attempting to drive a large SUV into a small space, which she was approaching at the wrong angle. Even I could see that she was too much on the diagonal, too close in, and wouldn't do it. She gave up, and tried again with another bay barely wide enough for her gigantic car, this time next to a concrete pillar for added fear factor. She made the little girl in the front passenger seat get out, and stand by the pillar. The child stood mutely, with an expression which combined a look of deep embarrassment about being seen out with this clown, with an ignorance of parking as profound as that of her mother. At least she had an excuse, being no more than twelve years old, and not in possession of a driving licence, or in nominal control of a motorised vehicle in a public space. The prospect of running the child over paralysed the driver, who gave up trying to get into the space, summoned the child back into the car, and spotted that another car a couple of bays along was about to leave. She turned to me with an appealing smile and a wave, and gestured that she would go into the next gap instead, and there was a further delay as the driver of the second car did a seven point turn, because the SUV was blocking it in, while I ground my teeth and swore inwardly. If she couldn't park her car she ought to drive a smaller one. I'd have liked to hoot at her, but couldn't remember where the horn was.
Then I went up to the smith at Wakes Colne to collect the bean tendril sculpture. I place the order in the third week of June, so it has taken rather a long time compared to his original estimate of three weeks, but that was because his forge broke down. He rang to say it was ready about a week ago, and I said I'd be along to collect it soon, but might leave it until the next wet day. He has made a wonderful job of it and I am thrilled. I will post a photo in due course, once I've installed it. At the moment it is lying in the hall, where I must be careful not to tread on it and risk breaking any of the tendrils off. Though I suppose wrought ironwork can always be mended. I must have achieved the status of trustworthy regular customer, because I left an idea for a plant support with him, and this time he didn't want a deposit.
After lunch I finished putting patches on my latest gardening trousers. This is a highly experimental project. My trousers always go at the knee, while the rest of the garment is still perfectly good, zip working, seams intact. I have scoured the internet, and the army surplus stores of Colchester, trying to find either women's work trousers in a really heavy twill, or genuine combat trousers in a 28 inch waist, and failed utterly on both counts. Men seem to have the same problem, since most of the customer feedback on the internet about recently purchased work wear trousers grumbled about the flimsiness of the material.
My latest experiment is to buy two pairs of chinos in the Lands' End sale. They have an elasticated back waist, which earns nils points for style, but will be comfortable for crawling around in the garden, and I ordered them un-hemmed. This allowed me to chop fully six inches of both legs, from which I have extracted two patches about six inches square. Rather than try to retrofit the patches after the knee has already gone, I have sown them on in advance. Knee patches on gardening trousers tend not to last very long, because kneeling down puts such a strain on the stitching round the edge that it breaks in next to no time. This time I have sown them on using rows of running stitch in button thread across the entire area of the patch, and instead of trying to turn the edges of the patch under, I have laid the patches on flat and over stitched the edges to prevent them fraying too badly. The result looks very odd, though I suspect that if I never used them for gardening, but kept them immaculately clean and told the hipsters in Shoreditch that they were based on Japanese work wear, they might almost believe me. As long as I wore a long shirt to hide the elasticated back waist. That would be a dead giveaway.
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