Today is an early blog post, as I take a breather after extracting another batch of honey, and before venturing forth to clean out the hen house. In the interests of health and hygiene I thought I should do them in that order, starting on the honey straight after breakfast, fresh from the shower and before I could make myself grubby again on anything except the products of the hive. I am now distinctly grubby, my left hand stained nicotine yellow from holding the lugs of the frames during uncapping. The sole of my right foot feels sticky, although I've washed it twice, and the inside of my Birkenstock. I have washed the extractor, and the worktop, and the kitchen table, and the kitchen floor. I have wiped the handle of the spare bedroom door, which had got unaccountably sticky, and cleaned up the smears along the upstairs landing left from my last extraction session when I didn't make a very good job of wiping it. The Systems Administrator has gone to Lords, but when the SA gets back things will doubtless still be pronounced sticky. It is lucky that the SA does not get upset about such things.
The Lands' End t-shirts arrived. I feel rather guilty nowadays seeing the Hermes courier on the doorstep, having read in the paper how badly they are paid. I washed my hands yet again, and carefully tried one t-shirt on. It was horrible, the arms and body seemingly designed for somebody at least seven feet tall, they were so long, while, while the fabric had a strange, clinging quality. I am not shy about my arms, which are in better shape than many women half my age thanks to a combination of lucky genes and all that time spent humping boxes of honey around or labouring in the garden, but I didn't think the clinging was a good look, especially when the garment was cut too wide across the back so that it gaped oddly away from the nape of my neck. The shade of orange I'd chosen that had seemed vibrant and cheerful in the catalogue in real life was so fierce I looked as though I was dressed to carry out some kind of community service order. There didn't seem any point in trying on the other two, and they will have to go back. I must make this my final lesson: no more cheap t-shirts. Ever. It must be top quality cotton or nothing. Pima works out cheaper in the long run anyway, taking a twenty year view.
It is too hot for the little cats, which are all lying asleep scattered around the sitting room. I came out of the kitchen this morning to take a quick breather from the honey, and found Our Ginger sitting in the hall with two of them. For all that he hisses at them and grumbles I am sure he likes them really, otherwise he could have disappeared into the garden. Mr Fluffy when he is awake and out and about has begun to explore the veranda, but is still trying to get his head round the idea that the door on the veranda leads him back into the house, when it is open. He stood outside at one point this morning mewing, but I had a heart of stone and left him to make his own way back to the cat door. Once a cat get the idea that you will open a door or window for them if they stand outside it squeaking, you are condemned to be jumping out of your seat like jack-in-the-box for the rest of the creature's life.
Ah well, there are a couple of minor corrections to make to the music society's website, now that our helpful designer has got it working again, and then there is no help for it, I'm going to have to clean the chickens,
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