It’s April first. We walk far this morning, for coffee, exploring a new part of our neighbourhood. It rains but a soft reminder of New Zealand. I’m in tartan gumboots, we carry a big beige umbrella. Sesame Montréal bagels follow us home, still warm.
I wait to hear about a job: please, yes. But I’ll enjoy today too, make a memory, carry it forward. The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. L.P.Hartley
Boy, the wind curls around the rooftop conservatory, skiffing things across the deck. Springtime, the lion… A wan sun struggles through stripped branches but life is afoot; lime-green bursts through soggy garden beds.
When I have a garden again, to play around with, planting combinations inspired by colour and geometry, I’ll get a cat too! Yes, definitely, feline-wandering through the flower bed and chewing at the carrot tops, gives the final check mark to home… Yes!
There’s nothing like staying home for real comfort. Jane Austen
It’s our treasure chest, surely. Just as our hearts are treasure chests for good memories (unhappy ones also, but a happy person dwells more on the good ones). We’re all far behind on our photo albums, in an age of digital photos, flickr and Facebook but I shall take the time (she says!) to bring them up to date. Leafing through brings back wonderful reflections, doesn’t it? Stirs the memory?
Still swirling outside, while we are safely in, the wind is picking up. We’re out to a favourite local restaurant for an early, celebration dinner. Lucky that it’s 50 steps from the house – ah, the Plateau.
As it blows that gale, I read about Tuscany, mouth-watering recipes (one, we tried the other night), heritage-house reno (another wonderful project to sink teeth into) and old, old stone. Walking there next April might be fab… No April Fool, I.