Oh blessed be, this rich life. Em and I rolled our sleeves up and charged out into the garden yesterday morning united in purpose and ready to mow, mulch and compost a new bed into existence. It took about five minutes for it all to fall apart. Every decision, every border, the big picture – all became contentious and fractured until before long we were both sitting separately, deflated and unenthused having retreated into our shells of relationship self-preservation. We’ve been there before and we’ll be there again but we’ve both been making a big effort lately not to linger there. Grabbing the reins and pulling hard, slowly turning the big heavy bullocks around. We are getting better at it. Our common ground in the end was the principle of starting in close to the house and working out from there, abandoning the contentious bed further out. United again we threw a burst of energy at the grass and made a good start before I had to stop and head off for a choir performance.
The performance was for a wedding in Port – a long drive, always a long drive. I would probably join another choir or two if it didn’t involve so much travelling, but at least on the way I got to listen to Mumford and Sons, dreaming of arrangements for a men’s choir. The bride and groom didn’t know it was coming and were genuinely surprised to find twenty people on the pavement singing to them as they left their reception.
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