As you know, Bob, this journal since its inception has been titled "The Idle Solitary". Of course we all blame Johnson.
But! I am solitary no longer, being married and all. I should think of something other.
In the meantime, I am not idle either. Yester evening we went to the Meadery in pursuit of friends (largely because I had forgotten to give a friend an envelope, but hey), and committed socialising. Katherine (who made our wedding favours, and danced our health) came home with us after; I cooked chicken with couscous and salad and no harissa (for lack of any harissa! I could make my own, but where would I find it, around here?), and we drank quantities of wine and went to bed eventually.
And roused too early this morning - poor Katherine! - to head for the farmers' market and an allotment plant sale. John drove us home, as I had a bagful of veggies and a boxful of plants: tomatoes and chillies and cucumber and tomatillo and sugar snap peas and boysenberry canes. We'll see what lives, what thrives.
This afternoon I have planted out the peas and boysens against numerous sunny walls, in a spirit of bold experimentation. T'others I'm going to keep in pots in the clubhouse for a little while, until we're sure the nights won't grow too cool; I may not have killed the early tomatoes and chillies, but I'm sure I've stunted them.
And all day I've had a line of poetry in my head, like an itch that needed scratching. I have determinedly turned it into the first line of a story, as I don't write poetry any more; and then I failed to stop, and now I have a page and a half and I appear to be writing an SF story about exile and anxiety and art. Gosh, I wonder where that can possibly have come from?
If I should fall from grace with grace itself,
Lose art, lose any sense of circumstance...