The days are getting longer, I refer to the lengthening of daylight rather than ‘owt to do with being fastened in during lockdown.
Things are moving in the garden and the need to start wandering around the ‘estate’ to prune dead stuff – based loosely on gardeners world begins. The birds are singing in the start of the dawn chorus mingled with the arrival of the first delivery couriers of the day.
The growth of the home deliveries exacerbated by the lockdown is something few go us contemplated. Often the only route to acquire stuff whilst shops are shut or the supermarkets have de-stocked to concentrate on profitable lines, the online delivery is running rampant through our highways and byways. The lane where we live has been completely destroyed by the increased traffic. The epitome of the problem perhaps personified by a radio announcer who revealed he had ordered a loaf of bread on line. Others are ordering up to 10 items a day, with 10 deliveries. One courier advised she has delivered a single eye liner pencil, and occasionally a single pack of 4 AA batteries. Amazon prime avoids the delivery charge and you wonder how much needless stuff is ordered.
But we digress. Back in the garden a bush needed a haircut to remove dead wood before the birds started building nest. I double checked. Sniping branches into bit sized pieces I filled the green wheelie bin pronto, but also realised the bin contained al lot of air pockets that could be more usefully used. Failing to overcome the urge to squash I parked the bin adjacent to the bush and clambered up handy branches to stomp on the contents. Watching the internal pressure didn’t damage the bin the contents sank surprisingly easily right down to about quarter full. Then the stark realisation I hadn’t thought this through. I was now three quarters the way down on the inside of the bin. A more youthful me would have sprung out but the decrepit me stood there in the bin reviewing the passage of the years and realising being stuck in a wheelie bin does not count as an achievement, not by a long chalk. The solution, in case you were thinking I typed this whilst still there, was to lean over and tip the bin to fall against the bush. This was going to hurt was the lasting memory as the bin progressed on its trajectory, thankfully not as bad as the injury to the pride. A furtive scan of the scene ensured no one had witnessed the antics, and at least I was spared the chorus of “daft bugger”.