Who would have thought around New Year’s that the time would come when I’d get up at the crack of dawn to do gardening, and then point out to my dear husband to be that his arse was sticking out of his pants?

Not in the “I’m a cool teen guy with expensive underwear that I want to display to everyone”-sense but rather in the “I’m a middle aged plumber whose firm doesn’t give a belt with the uniform so when I squat to look at the pipes my arse-crack spreads out in front of all lookers” way.

Not that his arse isn’t fine to look at under most circumstances, but there are proper ways to dress it, and there are improper ways. I am only concerned about his reputation and style, after all. I do not, of course, obsess over it in three paragraphs that are meant to tell about today’s busy schedule that began with the gardening.

I can’t exactly say that when I was lying awake this winter, fuzzing over whether it was a good idea to take over this house or not, that I thought there would be this kind of regular duties. But there are several things like that which has crept into our lives, and which have transformed our lives into a series of scheduled chores that I wouldn’t have expected until I was at least thirty. Like making certain that the wheeled bin is rolled out to the pavement on certain days.

This could easily become such eye-sore if we didn’t keep everything trimmed and proper. If we let it go, we may as well put a rusting car wreck in the front and start to litter the front garden patch with empty bottles and bags full of rubbish. So… it’s to get up at the crack of dawn and join the legions of middle class citizens and whip the lawns and hedges into shape. We may as well order a subscription to the Daily Mail and start to gruff about the foreigners coming here to take British jobs.


There’s a pub not too far away from here, The Astolat, and me and Mark and auntie decided to go there and have a bite to eat after the gardening duties were done, and it was there that we came to talk to a man in his forties that set auntie’s teeth on edge because he was loud, boisterous, and didn’t mind sharing his opinions about those foreigners and the EU with us.

While I may hold a British passport, I suppose I am one of those nasty EU-foreigners. So, Auntie ate with her jaws clenched, muttering about the Little Englanders and the stinking Tories – loud enough for that man to hear. I suppose he saw the glint in Auntie’s eyes that dared him to continue because he left after a while.


Back home I made another recording before I have to return the microphone I borrowed, and I posted my silly little song on my other blog on Tumblr – where I post short stuff that’s not long-arsed. I may post the new one there as well. I had a bit of guitar layering in the linked song, and I’ve expanded that a lot in the new one. You could say I’ve gone overboard with the new one because it’s over seven freaking minutes long.