Saturday Morning

I was going to title this post “Saturday Morning, 9am” – like the Simon and Garfunkel song – but that was already an hour and a half ago, so it seems a little disingenuous. After finishing the morning round of chores, I’m sitting at the dining table at the end of the lounge with my trusty laptop, listening to Scala radio drifting into the room from the Amazon Echo in the kitchen.

The sun is shining outside. I would normally cut the grass, but my other half has informed me that the bees need dandelions at the moment – so all grass cutting is banned for a few days. I read the other day that asian hornets are sweeping the country – and they prey on bees, so we need to do all we can to help them – and if that’s as easy as leaving the dandelions alone, so be it.

The kids are up and about, but I’ve hardly seen them yet. Miss 16 appeared momentarily to fill a bowl with cereal, and I met our eldest in the kitchen while making a coffee half an hour ago. I woke fairly early this morning, checked the clock, and then fell fast asleep again – having a really bizarre dream in the process. I’ve had a succession of weird dreams recently. I can never quite figure out if dreams mean anything or not – I know some people attach great importance to them – I tend to view them as bits of broken memory, glued together by a mis-firing brain.

Somebody in a garden nearby is bashing something with a hammer, and it’s driving me slowly insane. I have the patio doors open, so can hear every staccato smash. I wonder what they are doing, and why they are doing it ?