Potty!

You would think Husband were Head Gardener at Kew to look at his collection of pots.

I told you I had a cunning plan for the bit at the end of raspberry patch. It is coming to fruition but neither Husband nor I are doing it.

A young man from church mentioned on the whatsapp group that he and his partner had a small business and were available for garden work, sheds, etc. So they're coming this weekend, weather permitting to sort it out for me. It will involve a bit of digging and filling and concreting and slabbing. They're also going to cut down a tree while they're here.

But that meant I had to empty the storage box full of pots. After I'd struggled to get the table (old desk) out of the box and hauled it across the lawn and into the garage, I discovered it came apart. 

Husband just came in and I asked him if he really needed all those pots. His answer was a definitive, "Yes!"

Gertie's day

Today is St. Gertrude's Day. Yes, I know it's also St. Patrick's Day but I've told you before about Patrick being born just up the road from us here in Banwen. (Some people may argue that he was born elsewhere but we Welsh know the truth.)

By Simon Bening

So, back to Gertrude. She was born in 628 in what is now Belgium, and she and her mother founded the Abbey of Nivelles. At a young age she declared that she would never marry as she was called to be the bride of Christ, and she spent her life helping the sick, elderly, and poor. 

This earned her the title of patron saint of travellers, widows, and mentally ill. She's also patron saint of gardeners, and her name is invoked against rats and mice.

Sometime in the 1980s cat-lovers decided that, as she stood against vermin, she must be in favour of cats, and she is now wisely known as patron saints of cats and cat-lovers.

There is a legend that one day she sent some travellers to a distant country, promising that no misfortune would befall them on the journey; when they were on the ocean, a large sea-monster threatened to capsize their ship, but disappeared upon the invocation of Saint Gertrude. In memory of this occurrence travellers during the Middle Ages drank the so-called "Sinte Geerts Minne" or "Gertrudenminte" before setting out on their journey.

She died at 33 "because of too much abstinence and keeping of vigils", according to Cambridge Mediaeval History. Which just goes to show.

Today is the saint's day for at least twenty others, including the closer-to-home, St. Llinio of Llandinam.

St. Llinio's church in Llandinam. I got distracted. It looks like a very pretty part of the countryside with some lovely houses for sale, including one 20-bedroomed mansion. 

The Milk Saga continued

So I emailed the company. This is part of their answer:

" ... we noticed that no delivery instructions have been provided for the driver to follow. As a result, there is currently no specific place where your milk is being delivered."

The company was taken over recently. The old owners didn't need telling where to put the delivery.

I could easily turn into a grumpy old woman.

* * * * *

It's the 'paint along with Jo' art session this coming Saturday. We're up to the limit we set of thirty attendees, assuming they all turn up, which is brilliant. It will raise a good total for Zac's.

However several people named Sarah have booked. I'm hoping they're all different people and not someone who got confused and booked several times. As I got confused when I went to the shop just now and took my peg bag with me.

Doorstep delivery?

I saw this on Twitter.

Wales beat Italy

Who beat Scotland

Who beat France

Who beat Ireland

Who beat England.

Therefore Wales must be champions.

Sounds about right to me. We might be bottom of the table but in our hearts we're the champions. 

* * * * *

We have milk delivered to our door in glass bottles. We've always done it that way.

We are currently considering/arguing about whether to give up. Husband grumbles because it's far more expensive than milk in the supermarket but I like the convenience, and the fact that bottles are recycled. Normally the only problems we've had have been birds pecking the tops. That was resolved by leaving a tile out for the milkman to put on top.

But this milkman is driving us closer to giving up. 

The last few deliveries he's left at the top of the steps. Not so convenient but we didn't complain. 

This morning he left the milk outside the front gate. We also have one full and one being-filled crates outside our door. 

Can you see those little white things outside the gate? (This is from our bedroom window.)

I've written to complain. And threatened to cancel. 

We won!

31-17! 31-17! 31-17!

Wales has not won a Six Nations game since March 2023; that's 15 games and 1,099 days. And what a way to do it. At half-time they were leading 21-0 and no-one was quite believing what they were seeing. The second half was a little more stressful as Italy battled back into the game, but, oh my, what a game.

I'm surprised I'm not hoarse today. 

GrandSon3 and I both had dragons on our faces. GrandSon1 was too cool for that but not too cool for a sheep hat. I was tempted to buy a dragon hat but when I tried one on I realised it looked like a giant red willy hanging from the front.

We had a fab time. I'm so glad we decided to go. The atmosphere in the stadium was fantastic.

A Big Day

I have had a rotary clothes dryer for as long as I have been married but it's only recently that I realised I could turn it around to hang clothes on. Up till now I've been walking around it. Doing its job for it I suppose. It's still a struggle to remember.

* * * * *

I had a message from someone yesterday saying I brought a ray of sunshine into the church with my quirky sense of humour.

I told Husband. He said, "She means weird."

* * * * *

I have two things to do this morning: learn the national anthem and write a prayer for Mothering Sunday.

I'm going to the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff to watch Wales play Italy this afternoon! With Elder Sons and GrandSons1 and 3. It was a last minute decision. The Welsh team has come to so close to victory on the last couple of occasions, they've played bravely in spite of all the criticism and off-field hoo-ha about getting rid of a team, and the atmosphere was amazing last time they played in Cardiff. And there is a tiny possibility they could win today. I'm not holding my breath on that point but it will be good to be there.

I have learned the anthem in the past but then I don't use it for a year and forget it again, and I want to be able to sing my socks off today. (Out of tune of course.)

In 2013 Husband and I went to Rome and watched the match there.

I swapped hats with an Italian supporter at the end.

The pain in the middle of the night

Yay! The roofers have finished and the scaffolding has gone from the front. The rest of it is still there but at least we don't have that huge tower in front of our bedroom window any more.

I had a terrible pain in my chest in the middle of the night and was wondering how long I should wait before waking Husband and telling him I'm having a heart attack. Then it went away. So it was probably the half a doughnut I ate in Zac's.

A lovely walk this morning with Daughter and Louie, with a little bit of gardening this afternoon. In between I researched Mothering Sunday for this week's church newsletter. Did you know Mothering Sunday was less to do with mothers and more to do with the church? 

From the 16th century, the 4th Sunday in Lent was designated as Mothering or Refreshment Sunday. The idea was that on that day you returned to your 'mother' church' i.e. the one in which you were baptised or your local church or nearest cathedral. The strict fasting rules of Lent were relaxed for that day and you were allowed to eat slightly richer food.

It was also the day that domestic servants were allowed to go home and visit their families - the only day of the year they had off apparently.

Mother's Day in America is a completely different thing and happens on the 2nd Sunday of May.

(Oh, I just found a spot on my chin.) (Probably that doughnut again.)

The camellia bush in our garden is looking absolutely gorgeous.

Tsundoku

I grumble about being busy but free days also are no good for me.

I waffle around, wasting time, dithering, wondering what to do. I look at the study and think I could tidy it. Next minute I am standing in the middle of the study, head in hands, saying, no it's too much. I don't know where to begin.

So I procrastinate and come and blog.

No! I can make a start with my desk. So I clear some rubbish and move some books.

But my book shelves are too full. "Get rid of some books!" I hear Husband's voice in my head. And, yes, it's reasonable: there are books on the shelves I read long ago and I won't read them again but . . . can I do this?

There a small box full of books to go. You can see by the dust and discolouration on the tops how long they've been untouched. I did, however, find quite a lot of books I've not read so they can't go. Some I might never read; some I bought because they were written by someone I was on a writing course with or something; some I bought on a whim; others with good intentions that I never quite found time for; books I've inherited and keep because I think I should; yet more still that are old but I've kept in case one day I want to read a classic. So many good arguments and not enough time to read everything. 

Not to mention the dvds and even videotapes that we don't have a player for.

Oh this is too much. I'm going to sit down and continue my pilgrimage to find grace.

My grey Christianity

The title of the sermon in church this morning was Good Sex, Bad Sex, (about the passage on adultery in the sermon on the mount) and the speaker began with a joke. 

A teacher asked the local vicar to speak to a class of schoolgirls about sex. He agreed but, for some reason, didn't want to tell his wife so he told her he was talking about sailing.

He did the talk and it went down very well. The teacher bumped into the vicar's wife a few days later and told her how very good her husband's talk had been.

"That's a surprise," said the wife. "He's only done it twice. The first time he was sick and the second time his hat blew off."

That was the last light-hearted moment in the sermon. The speaker's view was very straight down the line with no grey areas. My Christianity is full of grey areas, I don't knows, and I don't understands. I was going to say it must be nice to have it all so clearly set out in your head but actually I'm not sure it's always meant to be straightforward. I mean, Jesus' message is simple. Love. Love God, your neighbour, yourself. But Jesus also liked to challenge his listeners. And just about the final thing he did was promise paradise to someone who hadn't even said he was sorry, let alone said the 'sinner's prayer' so beloved of evangelicals.

To see beyond the shell, to hear the unsaid, to love the unlovely.

Our lovely young minister is speaking next week on divorce. He is very anxious and has been preparing for it since before Christmas. He's more like me and less sure that things are black and white.