Braving a steely humid sky, myself and my neighbour hang out washing.
Dog and I go walking, sans coat, through the lanes where the hedges are uncut and they whisper at us all the way round the block. I do not know what they are saying: it seems gossipy.
At home a fresh rose opens and is plucked for the teapot. My rose-brewing teapot has a cracked handle from Saturday's shelf disaster. It's not quite broken yet though, it stays in use. I stare at it, to get the most from its presence.
Seems like an ordinary day.
An ordinary, hot day: in the shower I look for soap and find instead one smallish centipede.
Outside, the wind stirs up the clouds, the vegetation, the pegged out washing: and my hair, which dries all unruly.


  1. Gossipy hedges. I'm reminded of King Midas's unfortunate barber --a secret whispered into a hole in the ground is repeated by the reeds, and presumably heard by poets. Ovid, I think.

  2. I should have been paying closer attention then, I may have missed a state secret or two... Ovid had a good ear for reeds.


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