Forty one minutes past twelve. Saturday. Afternoon. The wind is getting up. Storm brewing.
The main news of the day is that the gravel I bought yesterday to ‘top up’ the drive doesn’t look as if it is the right stuff. This is a slight problem as the previous lot I bought earlier in the week wasn’t right either. The gravel in the drive has been down for maybe fifteen to twenty years so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that this latest lot doesn’t match. The original quarry was probs used up, so to speak. The right stuff is probably a mix of the two lots tried this week. In actual fact we can probably just rake the new stuff in with the old and nobody will notice. See how it goes innit.
It is good that the main news concerns gravel. It could have been much graver. Pestilence, floods, the ravages of war. You could visit websites that would tell you that pestilence, floods and war are indeed the main issue of concern and which never mention gravel.
The choice is yours: gravel or pestilence. I know which one I would go for. Pestilence can bloody pee off. Estilence. No ‘p’.
As I mentioned there is a storm a brewing. A thunderstorm. We will be shut away in the shed watching the Ladies Final at Wimbledon All England Lawn Tennis Club or simlar. Safe from floods. A gentle rain has started and the first claps of thunder rent the air. Now the rain is coming down heavier and a frisson runs down my spine. Vertical heavy rain beating on the shed roof. No drummer could match this intensity.
The shed doors are wide open to the garden. The lights are on. I need to go in for lunch. Umbrella have I. An old Timico branded job kept in the shed for this very purpose.