When did it become a thing for people being interviewed to start most sentences with “I mean…“? Even at the beginning of an interview. I can only assume it’s because they’re not sure about what they are saying and therefore need to justify it. Even before they actually say it. It’s an odd conversational tick.
There were not a lot of conversational ticks during Word of Mouth this afternoon.
We were on the lounge, listening to Michael Rosen talking to Irish storyteller, Clare Mulreann Murphy. Clare has a brain full of stories. She doesn’t have anything written down or recorded. They are all stored in her head.
At one point Michael asked if she could tell a story. Her voice was a delight, as you’d expect with a teller of stories. The story was about the Irish gods and was totally absorbing. The three of us were totally absorbed anyway.
Actually, if I’m being completely honest, I was totally absorbed. Emma and Freya were asleep following their walk.
The story was climbing inexorably towards it’s climax. Clare was slowly drawing me into her world of myth and legend. Then, suddenly, the doorbell rang.
The dogs erupted off me and started carrying on like little fluffy lunatics. Clare’s voice vanished into the radio ether. I dragged my mind out of a delightful natural miasma.
It was Richard with the eggs.
Needless to say, I didn’t hear the end of the story. It’s a good job I use BBC Sounds.
* * *
Earlier in the day I was at the gym before heading home to ring mum.
She was rather agitated today. She hates living at the home and, worse, The Walker has returned. I have no idea what is true and what is an invention. I think her agitation might be because Denise is away as she has been getting worse each week. I’ll have to warn her. Denise, I mean.
I wasn’t warned when I returned home and spotted what looked like a spattering of cabbage leaves on the raised bed.
From the sliding doors, without my glasses on, I noticed a patch of green on what had been an empty bed. It was a bit odd. I figured that Freya had, perhaps plonked something there. Freya has rather taken to the raised bed, jumping up on the edges whenever she’s outside. Perhaps she’d indulged in a bit of gardening, I thought.
I was wrong.
Mirinda has grown some Californian poppies from seed. They were looking a bit sad and crowded in a seed tray and so she planted them out. This morning before she left for work. I shall endeavour to keep track of their progress though she’s not hopeful.
It rained after dark so, perhaps, they will survive.
A surprising survival is a little alpine plant sitting outside on the terrace. It looked like it was in hibernation but suddenly little white flowers appeared. The flowers keep getting bigger.
The whole garden is gradually waking up with dots of yellow appearing in the Wildflower Patch (that needs another name) and bulbs popping up everywhere. This time of anticipation is like Christmas Eve for a five year old.
Every year I think the bulbs will be killed off because an unexpected warm spell starts them growing only to be hit by a sudden cold snap. But every year, they just sit and wait and grow when they can. Finally, come Spring, the garden is once more alive with colour.
I mean…
