20 July 2015
Around this time of year you'll often find some bunches of dried poppies around the house. They seem to last for ages until you accidentally brush them when dusting the mantelpiece and a scattering of seed rains down. That's not an idle metaphor - it really does sound like rain. So now I have a bowl of poppyseed and rather than sift it into a clean jar to be used for cake I am tempted to take a handful, get on my bike and scatter it around the borough.
What's more, looking out of the window, I notice that the police horses have left a line of fresh manure which, interestingly, passing cars are trying to avoid as if they were wearing new wellies and not old tyres, and now I'm wondering whether it would be too eccentric to go out with a shovel and bucket and collect it for the little apple tree.
Quandaries, quandaries. Anything to avoid the housework.