Was that a pigeon ?

The bus swoops down green lanes like a swift .

Its not that swift though as it detours to various villages on the way .
It's been a revelation this temporary bus / train travel .
The conversations you hear .
Plus I  thought the twice weekly trip out of the village to shop was over . I had sort of assumed that people were not so anchored in the village for most of the week as they always used to be . By no means is this true .

We went to see some Eric Ravilious , eat a brunch , buy a few treats in the second hand book shop . A stroll round the market and then onto the sequestered garden .

A maze , scented old roses , some Victorian hot houses and lots of hidden green corners with benches .

We sit on a bench drinking icy , very lemony lemonade .We look at our book finds . I read out a good bit and am stopped in my tracks .

Somebody lets out a loud raucous fart . The saxophonist and I raise our eyebrows at one another in surprise .
Then the saxophonist says " was that a pigeon ?

I reflect that unlikely remarks are not restricted to random bus passengers .

Contrast .

Having had enough of snails , slugs and hard slog , for a little while at least , we went to London today .
I bought two new dresses .
Black ,  since you ask and two pairs  of roman style sandals .

 Later coffee , cold water and cigarettes in the shady garden of the coffee shop beside St James , Piccadilly . There is a fountain there with two stone cherubs throwing water at one another . Sensible plan in the heat .

I'm going to pair the dresses and sandals with a slick of lipstick and a squirt of scent and sass  a bit .
How do people cope without contrasts in their lives I wonder .

Of high heels and manure .

I realise from my New York friend that allotments are not universal .

An allotment site is usually owned by the local authority . It is divided into plots . These plots are rented by the year to local individuals . They are to grow fruit and / or vegetables or keep bees or chickens on .

It is a very old fashioned system . The plots are measured in "rods" . Either 5 or 10 rod per person . A rod is a medieval measurement . It is the distance from the front of the oxen to the ploughman at the back of the plough .

In the second world war they were a valuable food source and many people took one on and became part of the " dig for victory " campaign . Various people in my family have had allotments . They are part of our history .

I imagine one or two of them were looking down today when I was at the plot . I had yet another shopping trolley full of carpet and bricks and tools .

They will be sitting in a celestial bar somewhere , helpless with laughter at the high heels and lipstick girl in dirty dungarees discussing the merits of various manures and what is the superior shit .

Sex and the shopping trolley .

A bit of lateral thinking .
I needed to smother about half a tennis court's worth of weeds at the plot .

I got a large shopping trolley from the nearest supermarket and pushed it to the local carpet shop . I assumed that they took the " old " carpet away when they fitted a new one .
They did and had to pay someone to take the old ones  .

I and the saxophonist filled the trolley with rolls of carpet and pushed it all the way to the plot .

We rolled the carpets out and anchored them with bricks . This leaves a smaller piece to plant for now .

Pushing the laden trolley down kerbs , up hills and then across the grass , especially in the full sun ,  is not for the feint hearted .

We took turns and I watched  the saxophonist force the trolley across the grass  .
I thought  "I love you in my bed but this is also an act of love and I am a lucky woman ."