Waiting for Dame Edna

Waking at a ridiculous 7am (having gone to bed at about 1:30am) the puppies and I moved from the bed to the lounge to watch the news. Nicktor slept on. He is one of those lucky people who can just sleep. Even though he wakes early for work every day, he can still sleep for England when work doesn’t grab him out of bed (with the help of an alarm).

He eventually woke at 8:30 and, having showered and changed, we set off for the station at 9. He never has breakfast. Weird.

Along the park path a group of kids had chalked a mural. A variety of images from butterflies to hopscotch, from mountains to snakes had been added to the path. Some of the images were very good. I particularly liked the peacock, though something tells me an adult possibly had a hand in it.

Chalk peacock on park path

We admired the artistry while calmly walking over it, eventually arriving at the station.

Nicktor hates trains and when he realised he’d have to catch three to get to me, he moaned. He no longer has a car, work having picked up his company car on Friday, and is at the mercy of public transport until he buys one. He’s still trying to sort out what to buy; wanting a convertible but having to settle for a family car.

Hearing his transport complaints, Dawn smiled and said “Welcome to Gary’s world!” This did nothing to console him but made me laugh because I was going to say the same thing.

I waited for the train with him but, unlike with Mirinda, I didn’t stand and wave as the train pulled out, preferring to head to Starbucks.

Gostrey Meadow in the Sunday sun

The rest of the day was mostly spent in the garden, weeding. I’m pretty sure that the word ‘weeds’ comes from the Latin for “grows better than anything else”. It never ends! I’m pretty sure I saw some of them growing while I was pulling others out.

It was a very pleasant and restful day, weeding and listening to the cricket, a gentle sun overhead, a slight breeze taking the heat away. The poodles were stretched out underneath various bits of garden furniture (Carmen spent some of her time sleeping under an obelisk) with occasional visits to ensure I hadn’t forgotten about them. It was sometime in the afternoon that I noticed it.

We’d planted some gladiolus bulbs earlier in the year and they had pushed forth green stalks, rising high and glorious but little else. But now, before my eyes, one stalk had appeared, the flowers still tightly bunched inside.

This had seemingly appeared out of nowhere but, while very exciting, it didn’t occupy a lot of examination time. Later, having read a bit about Dame Edna’s favourite flowers, I found out that the word gladiolus comes from the Roman word for sword – gladius. It strikes me as amusing that gladius means sword but ‘glad’ means happy. And, of course, that’s what Dame Edna calls them…well, ‘gladdys’ to be more accurate.

So, not so much sword-like as happy plants. And, to be honest, I think they make better smile inducers than they would be lethal weapons.