Dirt

I'm in bed with Olga again this morning, mentally preparing for the arrival of our guests today. I think the house is in pretty good shape, except that Dave got a delivery yesterday of about 20 bags of compost, which are all stacked in the foyer next to the front door.

"Can't we move those somewhere?" I asked him. I don't think I'm being unreasonable in not wanting bags of soil stacked inside the house. We're hoping to shift them out to the garden shed, provided we can find space between the lawn mower and the disassembled coffee table that belonged to a previous tenant of our flat.

(And why are we keeping that table? Well, that's a very good question. Mostly because the glass top alone weighs about 100 pounds, and we haven't mustered the strength or ambition to haul it to the street and arrange for its removal. It lacks screws to hold it together, but I suppose we could give away the pieces to someone ambitious enough to buy new screws. Another project for another day!)

I came home from work yesterday to find our three potted hyacinth bulbs, which were roughed up by Olga before I moved them outside onto the patio table, were gone. And I mean completely gone -- no trace of them anywhere. Just an empty flowerpot. Obviously they became the newest hors d'oeuvres for the écureuils. The bulbs bloomed beautifully last year, but this year they hadn't done much -- indeed, I'd say they were barely surviving -- so maybe it's just as well.

(Photo: The glass heart I found a few years ago, hanging in our living room window.)