19 March 2007

Poets never get these things right

T.S. Eliot had it all wrong. April is not the cruelest month. March is.

Temperatures go up, temperatures go down. Outside my house, the ground is frosted with frozen sleety slush, which will, if the weather report is accurate, melt today. Inside my house, under a fluorescent light in the basement, are 6 box ('Green Velvet'), 5 mockorange ('Manteau d'Hermine'), 6 sweet box (Sarcococca confusa) and about the same number of veronica 'Heavenly Blue,' all part of a plan to border the front yard with shrubs. (The veronica is to underplant the box along the driveway side).

I didn't actually think I was going to get the planting all done this weekend, or even half done, but ordering plants for delivery in March seems to signal the gods that it's time to deliver a last shot of nasty weather as a reminder that plans only go so far.

Duly noted.

The conditions being unfavourable for yardwork, the Viking and I took to pursuits like assembling his new desk (which went together fast and with a minimum of cussing) and mocking the TV offerings (which, apart from basketball, were pretty lousy). I finished the knitting portions of the Girly Bag (almost -- it remains to be seen if I actually have enough yarn to finish the flower) and now must work out how to construct the lining. At its most basic, this isn't hard, but the handle style I picked needs loops of some kind to be sewn in, and I think I want to add a pocket to hold lipstick and cell phone.

In short, almost nothing of interest happened. So, here's a random picture of a cat:


1 comment:

  1. It is not the worst thing Elliot got wrong. Great post.


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