I’m eating the first melon this year. One of those dark green rugby ball shaped melons a bit like honeydew. Sadly probably an imported one, it’s nonetheless fine and quite sweet.
Wednesday saw the first strawberry jam. It’s light jam, low in sugar and not cooked for very long, which means it still has a strawberry colour rather than the yummy brown I always seem to end up with. I often shiver at the idea of whatever chemical or method makes shop-bought strawberry jam so red.
Oh, the bad thing about the jam, or more precisely the making thereof, was the fact that my fabulous man was so very disappointed by the fact I set about doing it while he felt too tired to. He’s not the first or the last to say he’s not creative or good with his hands and however grand the counter-proof it’s so often not enough to reassure him and others that, actually they do great. Anyhow, I stole his job and was very sorry that I made him so sad in an instant. I’m not worried though because he’s so much more precise in how he makes our preserves of all kind that his jam is guaranteed to be nicer than mine.
The next batch of strawberries are all yours my love!
The pavers on the little square just down our road have finally upped their hours from half a day a week (I estimate the rate they progressed for the previous 6-8 weeks between 2 and 4 hours per week.) It’s nice because It’s sad to have fencing around the square just because the pathway round the edge is ‘in progress. If they worked this morning too, they may actually have finished.
Ah, and finally, a little non-PC-ness to round off my ramblings.
Walking into town the other day I witnesses one of my ‘only in …” such or such a place could this happen kinds of situations.
Only in France
Never in the UK without a fenced off perimeter and a little tent thing over his head.
If ever in the USA someone would manage to fall in and sue the poor man they squashed, his company and their local council too.
Shall I explain at last? Oh yes! It made me giggle… As I began, I was walking into town and looking to my right, between 2 large flower-beds, I noticed an open manhole. There was a traffic cone (Possibly 😛 stolen from Swansea of Cardiff council?) about a meter away and a toolbox about a foot to the side I walked. All I could see of the worker was the top of his head just below ground level as he stood up before bending back down to carry on whatever work he was doing. Like I said I giggled. I carried on walking and laughed to myself thinking how relaxed the French and many other continentals can be over a bloke down a manhole and then I played of in my head what would have happened elsewhere.
I’ve listed above my two main stereotypes and I’d add there’re probably one or two places where there’d be a couple of guys standing around watching, handing him a tool once in a while and generally providing conversation and encouragement as their day’s work.
I love situations like that, surprising moments of realising how a town or region or country (sometimes even a street is enough) are so different from the next.
Right, now back to dealing with everyday stuff and getting a bit more done towards this freelance project.