One down. Eight to go.

I suspect the dangers of biggest hill were almost visited upon Bongo this morning.  I don't even want to imagine how close this morning's attempt to cross Porter Street was to being his last.  But this afternoon, after an introduction to the local vet, as he sat again amongst the feral green licking clean his injured paw, I shed a little tear and thanked the heavens that my Biggest has survived this closest of close calls.

Hundreds of years ago I worked on the front desk at the Council of Adult Education:  an organisation renowned for its eclectic and eccentric mix of clientele.  It was impossible at the time not to note the link between  the occurrence of full moons and the most outlandish behaviour and extreme swings of mood amongst the student populace.  


Prompted by this recollection, I can't help but ponder if tonight's monumental full moon had anything to do with Bongo's death defying dash.

***

Milo and I decided to take advantage of the sunny day (and an opportunity to stealthily observe the injured) and tackled the lawn.


It's such a thankless task as far as results are concerned.  Although as far as progress is concerned it's terrifically gratifying.  

Our crop of weeds is impressive.

The dirt patch previously inhabited by the weeds is
significantly less to speak about

Today we harvest weeds.
Tomorrow (figuratively) we'll aim for something edible.

Dad recently claimed to've been born with nine green fingers, accompanied by one finger of death.  


I was born without a horticultural clue, although I am eager to muck in - provided there are gloves and tools and people to fan and bring me drinks.  I therefore have no idea about what to do with the  enormous patches of dirt I'm exposing by ripping out the weeds, but someone will surely share some hints.


Surely.