Thank you Royal Mail

I can either sit around feeling croaky and sorry for myself or . . . I can do some gardening.

I did some gardening.

I harvested all the rhubarb before we went on holiday - I thought. 

I like rhubarb as much as the next man - more if that man is Husband - but there's only so much stewed rhubarb/crumble/cake a body can take and my freezer is already full.

The raspberries though are just about done. I managed to pick about one bowlful. But the roses I bought to put each side of the new bench are flourishing. I particularly love the globe-shaped opening flower of this one, as well as its delicate very pale peach colour.

But the majority of my effort this afternoon went into clearing the rose bed. I don't remember planting big daisies there so think they must have sneaked in when I wasn't looking. All summer they're driven me mad as they encourage the growth of convolvulus and it's been impossible for me to get in and attack it.

So this afternoon I went mad.

This is just the prickly waste. I had two other bags of non-scary bits. 

It doesn't look very clear but when I've got more energy I'll dig up the roots of the daisies and try planting them elsewhere, and if I can keep it clear-ish I can make sure nothing takes over again. Famous last words.

Now I'm ready for bed. But have to cook dinner.

* * * * * *

Royal Mail workers are currently holding a series of strikes. As we normally only get boring mail that's not too much of a problem except . . . the new strike schedule they've issued covers some of October, all of November and into December. Which includes the birthdays of GrandDaugther1, Husband and me - my 70th at that!

Fortunately Royal Mail staff have made an exception for my birthday.