The Big Pour - And All The Little Paws

 Mr Shoestring was in a state of high anticipation on Friday night; he badly wanted to get to Shoestring Cottage and commence "the big pour" on his water feature.  All day he toiled in the heat on Saturday and was delighted with the result.  After the big pour Mr Shoestring sat back and admired the fruits of his labour

 

but much to his horror, the next morning he discovered that as well as the big pour there were also a lot of little paws - all over the base of his magnificent creation!  It didn't look like a gentle stroll, it seemed as if Basil or Frances (or possibly both of them and a whole group of feline friends) had taken up tap dancing.   

I suspect Florence, she may look innocent but she is concealing something

In between all this industrious creativity there was time for socialising as well.  Monsieur La Poste and Madame La Poste called in for a coffee.  (Monsiuer La Poste expressed his firm opinion that as deco devotees we should incorporate a representation of Freda Stark in our water feature.)  Then The Canucks arrived with all the fixings for delicious sangria, which we enjoyed in the shade under the old plum tree.  Mr Canuck was firmly of the opinion that a seal with a ball on its nose would be just the thing for us.

Sangria - nectar of the gods

That night my fellow goddess Mrs Peaceable came for dinner, and we enjoyed some bubbles (it was definitely the weekend for a pour).

She offered no advice as to the best statuary, but she did offer a piece of her water lily and the possibility of some fish from a kindly benefactor she knows!  Heaven.

While Mr Shoestring was beavering away outdoors on Monday I did my best to make progress on art deco costumes, but somehow the urge had left me.  I felt it was imperative that I should plant the cosmos seeds Madame La Poste had kindly brought me - after all, "fresh is best" with seed.

Mrs Peaceable had told me that she was going to start making her Christmas presents for next year immediately, and be prepared in good time.  What a good idea!  I thought I could make a start with one or two small things to begin with, so made a sachet stuffed with lavender, lemon verbena and rose geranium.

Also I had unearthed some old embroidered linen bags.  Very interesting!  Beautiful embroidery and so thoughtful that people would go to all this trouble.  I find satin stitch well nigh impossible and if I could stitch something like these I would be very proud - unbearably gloaty in fact.

But how strange to give someone a linen container for their pyjamas or linen and feel the need to name it.  I suppose it would prevent the all time gift horror situation.  "Thank you so much, I have always wanted one of these - what is it?"  Or did the embroiderers really worry that the recipient might stuff it full of kitchen utensils or shoes perhaps?  Odd, very odd.

So no more progress was made on art deco costumes this weekend but a very good time was had by all, and I shall post a recipe for sangria, that most delicious and fortifying of summertime drinks.

And speaking of delicious drinks, we had some El Transistor with Mrs Peaceable.  It was a very tasty Spanish white wine,  but the label was something I wish I could remove from the bottle and keep as a souvenir, what a lovely piece of artwork.  Can you see the transistor in the upper left hand corner?

I hope you have had a chance to relax and study a few dandelions this weekend - or the equivalent in contemplation, wherever you may be.

Birds - The Gardener's Mortal Enemies?

When Mr Shoestring had all that trouble with birds attacking the side mirrors on his car and leaving nasty deposits all over it, I tried to be sympathetic but in reality I was very indulgent to the birds.  After all I thought, they are the friends of the gardener and so enjoyable to watch as they go about their business.  Now I am not so sure.  Having spent all that time and effort on raising my own seedlings, nurturing and watering, transplanting and cosseting through the baby stages of their lives, I was horrified to discover that they had been ripped from the earth by the bird population.  At first I was inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt and tried to convince myself that it might have been the work of the cats.  However having made a serious study of the situation (not to mention replanting my precious seedlings several times in the space of an hour), I have to admit that it is the birds who are responsible for the carnage and destruction.  When I planted out the commelina seedlings I was hoping that they would not become an invasive menace as predicted by some garden commentators.  Now I shall just be thankful to see any of them reach maturity and flower so that I can witness the blossoms.  All that talk about birds being helpful in the garden is just a load of old rope and malarkey, they don’t seem to eat any slugs or snails, only the worms I am trying to encourage.  And as for the mess they can make of a flower bed in a short space of time, it has to be seen to be believed.  Earth, compost and seedlings randomly strewn all over the place, far and wide!  The last straw is when they come close by as you are feverishly trying to replant seedlings before it is too late.  They watch you with their horrid beady eyes in a very knowing fashion, as if to say, “Yes that’s right, you replant them – I shall be back again as soon as your back is turned and pull them out of the earth, just you wait.”  The honeymoon is over, drastic measures are called for.  Maybe some kind of frame over the soil, so that they can’t get their nasty pointy beaks close enough to do any damage.

We have a long weekend coming up and my avian adversaries will be surprised to find their peaceful existence disturbed by Mr Shoestring with his concrete mixer and me with my arsenal of bird scaring devices.  Let battle commence!

The Comfort Of Favourite Tools

This weekend while gardening I fell to thinking about the affection we develop for all the little devices we use every day, and the odd way in which we come to develop our favourites.  (Don’t you find gardening is a wonderful opportunity for contemplation, some extremely important concepts and ideas must have been developed during gardening sessions, I feel convinced of it.)  Now, Mr Shoestring is a great believer in having the right tool for a job.  (I suspect this is partly because he has a fondness for all things mechanical, electrical and gadget-y, hence the desire to buy water blasters, line trimmers, flame throwers which kill weeds, and other works of the devil which are not strictly necessary in a house the size of a dolls’ house with a garden resembling a pocket handkerchief, but I could be wrong; it has been known.) 

Getting back to the matter of favourite tools, this is my favourite trowel.  

It is starting to wear thin around the edges, the paint has come off and still I seek it out whenever I feel a gardening session coming on.  You can probably deduce that it was never a particularly expensive trowel and I suspect it may have been purchased from a $2 shop.  However, I will eschew all other trowels in favour of this one.  The weight, the length and shape of the blade all seem perfect to me.  Because Mr Shoestring is so keen on good design and the correct tool for the job he has often pointed out to me fiendishly expensive stainless steel trowels and suggested purchasing one.  (Though he would not stoop so low as to give me one as a Christmas or birthday present, he values his life too much.)  But I just know everything about my own Precious is perfect for the task at hand.  It will be a very sad day when we are finally parted, even now if it is mislaid in the garden (which happens several times every weekend) I feel slightly anxious and can’t rest until we are united.  Perhaps the handle should be painted a neon hue but I suspect even that wouldn’t stop the periodic separations.  This is just one of the prices we must pay for True Trowel Love. 

Talking to others you find the same story everywhere.  The Dancing Queen tells of the gravy spoon which has become something of an heirloom in her family.  It is worn away on one side from decades (probably almost a century now) of stirring gravy in the pan, and I suspect part of the charm of the venerable spoon is the fact that it brings to mind all the memorable family parties and meals from the past when the spoon was pressed into service.   

As for stitching tools, when quilting I will develop a fondness for a particular needle and even if it becomes bent I accommodate its odd ways and seek it out for every quilting session, until it is lost or broken.  Then what an unhappy time ensues as the search commences for a replacement – all too long, short, thick, thin or just plain wrong!  Then there are the favourite thimbles, quick-unpicks and especially scissors which we feel we must have on hand.  Where would we be without them all?