#atinylife Grass

As the sun came out more frequently, so did the grass. Soon the garden was its usual (ahem) mess. Swings, slide, broken plastic bubble machine, and tufty, tufty green shoots. Our bit of the back lane sported an exotic mix of dock leaves, dandelions, and grass so long it looked like a crop.image1 (19)

Mr HB was *not* happy.

‘Why don’t you cut the grass then?’ I said, silently adding, ‘while I go and take some video for that project that seemed a good idea four months ago and still isn’t finished.’

So he did. The weeds are still out the back, mind. I can see them from here.

But we’re lucky. If we’re grumping about having to cut the grass, it means we have grass to lie on, play on, make daisy chains from, even cut. Once in a while.

#atinylife Hoovering

‘Can you do the hoovering?’

I’ve been ill for a week, (I know, I’ll stop going on about it soon, I promise). Once I could look around me again, I saw the familiar piles of earth from school shoe grips, little pieces of paper from the last craft project, and the wispy dust that seems to come up from the floor itself.

‘Can you do the hoovering?’

On the second day, I was well enough to hoover myself. But it was the principle of the thing. Why should I hoover now? Why hadn’t he hoovered while I was in bed? Why is the hoovering ‘my’ job?

‘Can you do the hoovering?’

The third day, I asked this of myself. He can’t do the hoovering. But he’s always working – against the box he was put in as a boy. It’s enough.