I am outside in the garden shed with my computer, journal, and teapot, ready to dive into writing, free from the distractions inside the house.
I can hear rain falling onto the roof of the shed. Is is really raining right now or is it only this morning’s droplets, shaking loose from the trees? I’m trying to convince myself it’s the latter because I just spent fifteen minutes hanging a load of freshly washed clothes out on the clothesline.
I suppose that seems like a rather stupid thing to do on an overcast day when it’s been raining all night and morning and could start up again at any minute. Perhaps taking such chances is my way of “living on the edge.”
As I take a sip of my tea, I’m disappointed at its lack of oomph. Even though I like pomegranate green tea, I find that the aroma is often more impressive than the flavor. Besides, it’s damp and chilly outside and I’m terribly tired — good dark coffee would have been a wiser choice.
I am drinking my tea out of a clear glass mug with a painted hunter scene of horses, hounds and riders circling the cup. One of the hunters is blowing a bugle, another is about to lose his hat, and the third is riding a horse who is jumping over a fence.
Now I notice that the riders on my mug have saddles but no stirrups. How perplexing… How is the rider going over the fence managing to stand in the saddle?
Oh damn, the rain is starting in earnest. Hopefully, it will quit again soon. For every degree of dryness my clothes attain, there appears to be a reapplication of twice as much moisture. Is it my imagination or is the unmistakable smell of damp wool wafting through the air?
Another sip of tea, which is barely warm now, followed by a bite of overripe banana moosh chased with a broken chunk of hard dark chocolate. It doesn’t get better than this. One does need to keep up one’s energy when writing.
The chickens, are softly cooing outside the shed’s window. I don’t know what else to call the sound they’re making. It’s not a cluck but more like a crooning, only with a smoker’s rasp to it. The girls are a ragtag looking group right now and aren’t laying very many eggs. They’ve taken a break to spend their time molting.
My buffs, who usually have a consistent yellow hue to their feathers now look like checkerboards of yellow and cream. The Australorp seems to do all her molting around her neck, with bald spots running in a band like a necklace, only not a particularly attractive necklace. Perhaps she is trying to go Goth.