While the rain fell, and fell, and fell, it was time to turn our attention to the post-decorating clean up. That’s two days spent scraping paint splatters off floors, windows, and sockets, dusting dust of just about everything, chipping plaster off walls and grout off tiles, and filling any cracks and holes that have so far escaped the eagle eyes of the Chief Decorator. Like Scarlet O’Hara in the cotton fields, I could no longer pass myself off as a lady. The hands would give me away. The soft office workers hands are gone forever.
Meanwhile, spring is peaking out and the valley around us resonates with the bleating of lambs. If the gate is left open the occasional ewe and lamb come looking for tasty morsels.
I learned my lesson the hard way during last years growing season (see “The Killing Fields”, 5 July 2009), so any sheep heading up the drive gets chased back down the way she came!
I’m still a softie inside though as if I hear a lamb bleating once too often and a little too plaintively, I convince myself that the little one is trapped down a hole, drowning in the stream or caught in a bear trap. So far there’s been nothing more dramatic than Dad finding a sheep with her head stuck in our gate, too stupid to work out that she only had to turn her head to one side to get out.
Anyway, I’ve got far more important things to think about, like the arrival of a batch of mum-made curtains and cushions. Farewell painting, hello soft furnishings.