I'm sat up here in my eyrie that's what!
The mercury blasting out of the top of the thermometer hasn't happened, although it is muggy.
I should be out in the garden, planting up my slug deterrent plants, which after the half-time score of:-
Slugs - 5
LL - 2
sees me very dejected, just about to throw in the towel.
But wait! I'm not going to let those slimy critters outwit me.
So quids poorer, I shoot home from the local garden centre armed with the second wave of attack.
Trouble is I've lost the fire in my belly and can't really be bothered to engage in another all- out assault.
'Wouldn't it be better LL, to lay down and act dead or tie a white hankie on a stick and
Bloody GIVE IN?'
'No it blooming wouldn't, even though I am having difficulty drawing on my well over-drawn reserves!'
Hubs is up at our local fete, pretending to be a bobby on point duty (car park attendant to you and me).
I've shot up the hill, blown all spending money, tottered back with booty, quite spent in every which way.
And now the thought crosses my mind -
'What to do for the best!'
A refrain that often echoes around the Weald of Kent.
Because as regular readers of my blog will know I'm an ageing