Not a Metaphor, for Once

[faustus]

Monday was one of those days where the cloud waited for you to step out of the door and opened the cloud. It didn't matter whether you had a coat or not, you still got soaked. Today, on the other hand, the sky merely threatened, but didn't back this up.

Indeed, this morning was remarkably sunny, and so rather than write the lecture which is due to be delivered on Thursday and doesn't even exist as a concept yet, or produce the minutes which I hoity toitily said were on the way when they were asked for at 9.22 on Monday (notes having been picked up at 9.10), or produce the 200 word gobbets for RAE Outputs, or rewrite the booklet I've pretended to work on since July or... well any of a number of things due Right Now I found myself in the garden attacking the bushes.

This have been somewhat enthusiastic last year, and as some of them threatened to engulf the twitchell down which people push their bikes, wheelie bins and cats, I'd attacked the willow and one bush a few weeks back, until it was long past dark. Tom had come round to steal the wood for his chipper, and I dumped the rest on the tomato plants, awaiting the return of the chipper.

This morning I attacked the left hand side of the garden, hoping to leave a clear space between the three bushes and the buddliea - indeed on the latter I had a zero tolereance policy and took it down to the stump. Of course, it grows on the other side of the fence so it will return. I think for anymore I need a lopper, a saw or a chainsaw. For the moment it looks like a bad haircut. I'm sure spring will restore equilibrium.

Still two hours in the garden shows results, unlike two hours teaching the theory of mise en scene.

Now, where were those minutes?