Stinking Iris

I am back in the hot seat today as substitute coordinator for the school, finding subs to fill gaps for absent teachers and staff. The real sub coordinator is away, and returning to my old job has not exactly been fun. I spent yesterday evening dealing with repeated interruptions and wound up unable to fill one position -- so they'll have to cover it internally. Ugh! I hope to god that phone doesn't ring again before school starts this morning.

Yesterday was fun -- a holiday here in England, as well as in the United States. I had brunch with my coworkers in the morning (two brunches in two days!) at The Wolseley, a schmantzy restaurant on Piccadilly. One of our number is retiring this year, so we gathered for a little celebration. (And she's not being replaced, which means one less librarian next year.) I had eggs florentine, at the absurd price of £16.

Afterwards I came home and, in between vacuuming and doing laundry, I took Olga to the West Heath. She had a fantastic time and became positively wild-eyed at the prospect of chasing more squirrels. She even ran up a tree trunk -- the tree was growing at a low angle -- and fell about four feet to the ground. She was unfazed, but everyone around her seemed momentarily stunned -- probably thinking, "Did I just see that dog go up a tree?"

And look! Our Iris foetidissima or "stinking iris" has bloomed. It's an underwhelming blossom, to be sure -- a sort of sickly beige. Dave said he actually likes it, but I am not impressed. It doesn't really smell at all. Apparently the "stinking" (I read somewhere) refers to the scent of the leaves when they are crushed. I'll take their word for it.

(Top photo: The sign for a show at the London Palladium, yesterday.)