Saturday, 21 July 2012

The Call of the Wild.

Dry, warm, weather at last.
And some definite joy at the prospect of attempting some remedial work in the garden, or jungle, as it is in places imitating most successfully.
(When did "jungle" go out of fashion, to be largely replaced by "rain forest"?  Did "Save the jungle" not test well with focus groups?  Paying close attention to words, and what people try to do with them overtly or covertly, is a hobby and a life skill but it's another one that has an energy cost.  Though not being alert to words and their nuances can carry a very real cost as well.  My brain wanders off on this sort of thing, given half a chance.)

Back to the garden, and it's very clear this is going to be a case of "beware temptation".
So much to do, and so much gentle pleasure to be had in making good each little piece of winter damage or plant encroachment.

The kitchen timer set to five minutes is becoming essential, as I can get far too absorbed in the task at hand.
And set to 55 minutes too, as the related temptation is to trim the fifty-five minute sessions "just a little bit".
(That's my current target for the activity/rest ratio in any given hour.)

My cool logical side knows that would be a bad idea, but that isn't the whole of me.  No, not civil war, just peaceful protest by the bit of me that is frustrated and wants to cut loose.
At least, so far.

I'm not even fully recovered from my trip out on Thursday, so I don't think days out will be a major feature of the summer.

Judging by how I feel this evening, that is, somewhat over-tired, three five minute sessions in the garden over three hours is the maximum I should be looking at, and I'm not talking about five minute sessions of frantic earth-moving.  This is moving slow and steady even with the time limit.  No racing.

One train is now running around the main line, though.
And lying on the grass just listening to the wheel clicks is very relaxing, as a passenger train curls round the foot to the now derelict Wheal Strange engine house.

Someday the sound and accompanying trains may return to the branch line.
We've just got to find it, first.

One job at a time.
And that gently nibbled at.

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