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I would have had time for the garden today, despite the torrential downpour round about two in the afternoon. I would have cut the lawn and trimmed back a few of the plants which have had their season. I might even have knocked down the old, decrepit glasshouse at the far end of the garden to extend my vegetable patch another five metres towards the next neighbour.
What I really wanted to do was get a few photographs of the garden from the top floor of the house; lean out of the window and capture the wonderful white blossoms adorning the trees and beginning, with the slightly heavier winds of late, to shed their mantle in favour of the plush green of the summertime foliage.
The only part that I actually managed was to buy and plant a few golden red ivy creepers at the front of the house to cover a particularly ugly wall and present a better view of the house from the street. These ivy plants grown quickly and climb anything that is near them, always upwards and across, which means I have no real need to cut them at the base as they'll never impede on my driveway. In autumn they turn a deep red colour which, if you have never seen such a thing, is hard to describe but reminds me of a forest lane surrounded by trees all blessed with their autumn colours.
I make my plans for each day in advance, late at night when I am finishing off whatever work has crossed my desk, or polishing something that I have written before sending it off to some eager, wet behind the ears, editor who won't appreciate it until the senior chief tells him otherwise. Mostly I can keep to my plans, since there are few people who make appointments or expect me to appear at some function or other with less than a week's notice.
Today I didn't manage to do what I had wished, and I'm not really sure that I used the time appropriately which I could have better employed. However, I am another two hundred pages further into Proust's Remembrance of Things Past (Volume 2 of 3) and, despite the well laid plans coming to nothing, feel far better for having taken the rest, the time out and relaxed with an exceptional literary work rather than producing my own, or reviewing that of others.
Tomorrow is another matter. Tomorrow I have things to do and then, when I have finished them; when I have written a few private letters; when I have tidied up the kitchen from today's evening meal and done the shopping; when the house is clean and tidy perhaps then I will have time to mow the lawn and trim those plants which have passed their day and are no more.