While not typically one to milk luxury to an extent where it no longer becomes a luxury but a necessity. This afternoon, having finished my 3.5 hours of work for the week, I find myself once more sitting in the garden in the lane with no name opposite the field behind the lane with no name, using the laptop and enjoying a G&T with fresh apple juice. This is also accompanied by a rolling tin of tobacco, some cigarette papers and some filter tips.
Of course, the path to such decadence is not bereft without running the neighbour gauntlet. I am within earshot of the G (he of the human dog persuasion) family also lapping up the late afternoon sun which is dappled through the may and hazelnut trees which bulge with blossom and creak under the weight of the chorus of avian menace. I am also within sight of Mrs Owen who before I sat down to relax regaled me with tales of how the other neighbours cavil to her about where cars are parked (rather than confronting those responsible for parking) in the lane with no name and also how Brierley has succumb to a biblical plague of rodentia. Alas I am yet to witness any brown furry things.
And so my afternoon of idle draws to a close with the imminent arrival of Mrs Gnomepants who’s first question will be “And what have you done all day?”. “Fucked about in the garden” will not be my response.