63.

The cold porch smells like death.

There is a sad layer at the end of her days separated from the rest in a cage with a huge prolapse and I am busy trying to work up the courage to slaughter her, put her out of her misery before she does it herself. Hemorrhage is the fear and I have always relied on Husband for this unsavory task.

The mower is slow to turn over with a lazy whirl that won’t get anything cut till I fuss with it some more. I just wanted a quick pass through the garden paths. The grass is tipping over in the beds making it difficult to weed, okay, impossible to weed. It looks so beautiful to have the grass paths but they are a Victorian nightmare to upkeep.

I had planned to make a bread oven outdoors this week. And do five recorder lessons with my 6 year old. If I squish four in today, we should be good. The bread oven? I will be lucky if I can figure out where to place it. All the plans I have made for the summer would be difficult to accomplish unless the day had 36 hours or I never needed a nap, which it won’t and I do so they will be half done, screwdrivers resting on tops of 1/2 emptied shelves and curtains hanging higgedly piggedly.

It’s just one of those days.

 

all true, written about a few weeks ago.

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