Weekend Pursuits

Went with kp to a concert at Christ Church cathedral last night - the Cappriccio vocal ensemble doing Handel and Bach motets, ambitious pieces which they mostly pulled off. Technically they were great, but whether it was the acoustics of the building or not they - and particularly the soloists - seemed a bit muffled. I found myself wishing they were in a smaller space so as to get the real impact of those wonderful harmonies. One of the sopranoes, however, was truly splendid, having a natural, pure and unforcedly lovely voice.

We went to Moka House afterwards for decaf lattes and carrot cake (at least that's what I had) and long discussions of life the universe and everything. It'll be good to have one of my oldest friends permanently around now that Kathy seems to have finally decided to abandon Kingston and settle here.

This morning it was a little marking, some soup making (mostly brocolli, with other veg to supplement). Later I'll do more marking, take the d's out for walkies, putter. I'd like to get down and dirty in the garden but am not sure I'll have the time, and it's still a bit damp (pronounce dahmp). This evening, an Angel episode (I'm now up to Season 3), probably more marking... (do you sense a theme here?)

Tiresome neighbours and really effective procrastination techniques

I was caught pruning this afternoon by my tiresome neighbour, the one who lives in the house at the bottom of my property. (edit: that sounds rather as if I have vast tracts of land, subdivided, with a house that I have sold or rent out or something. I mean, my bottom fence borders her property) She always seems to be just coming or just going somewhere when I'm in the middle of something. I hear this disembodied voice going "Hi-eye" from around the corner of her house before I see her, then I'm usually all disheveled and my nose is dripping. Anyway, today she says "keeping things going, are you?" and I just smiled sweetly and nodded. And I realized afterwards, especially adding that to other things she has said, that she thinks that it's my mother's garden, and I'm nobly (or forlornly) keeping up my mother's legacy. Or something. Ick.

The fact that nothing could be further from the truth is something that I'm probably never going to know her well enough to tell her. It's entirely my garden; I built it, and in latter years it was the place I used to go to escape from the house and my mother. It was the one place I had control and peace. But I'm not going to tell her that. It wouldn't matter, except I loathe the notion that she regards me with pity. She's the type of woman for whom my current postmodern bohemian spinster lifestyle and tastes would be completely alien. I think of her as the kind of woman that Shelley Duval as she was in the beginning of Robert Altman's Three Women would grow into (ha - how's that for a nice obscure filmic reference!!). She'd no more watch Buffy than a Quentin Tarantino movie. Bet she watches The Ghost Whisperer! Meow.

Oh well. As you can tell, I gave in to the temptation to go out into the garden. And when I came in I gave both my dogs a bath (Robinson rolled in some cat poop, so it was actually necessary in one case) and washed the floors of my entire house. And threw the dog beds into the washer. Then I had to wash the bathroom post dog bath. Then I decided to change my sheets so that I can go the whole hog tonight after my own bath - such luxury: clean house, clean sheets, clean dogs.

No marking, however. Oh well. It IS the weekend, after all.