It was difficult not to have a good day yesterday, even the miserable weather could not spoil the party. We met up with friends seen all too rarely these days since The Matriarch removed herself to the depths of Drongan. But she gathered her easter brood and all were fed and watered, big style. Now we have the morning after.
But the hangover comes not from catching up on lost drams with Tractor Jim; oh no, it comes from chocolate. For my first task this dreich morning was to deconstruct two bags of chocolate eggs, to fill the recycling box with packaging. Thankfully the plastic element seems to be a thing of the past, but we have enough card to keep the Big Issue seller warm through the winter. I fear an acne explosion, and so the contents have been sent to the bottom of the wardrobe. The cat had better not sleep on his mousing duties.
And this excess came after the hunt, the one in the new garden with hiding places to be found, places that were not the familiar ones of old. As we were reminded last week, in the words of Brian Hanrahan, we ‘counted them out, then counted them all back in again’, well most of them. 193 it was, assorted mini eggs, bunny shapes and all those little bags that festoon supermarket check-out areas in the month before Chocolate-Fest. And only two remain hidden somewhere, unfound, unwanted.
So the little ones get divvied up amongst the assembled hordes, the ones not old enough to vote that is, refernda excepeted, possibly, mibbee. Knowing what was to come we let The Urchins off that hook, with just a few for the pocket. No, it is the big eggs that give me the problem, the ones with the packaging. I think next time round we need to keep it to the garden hunt only, and to replace the large ones that each gives to everyone else, with a suitable charity. I’d even think about putting money in a religious offering. But we give the chocloate makers far too much; ditto our children; and it has to stop.
But it was a marvellous day. We still see The Matriarch and her man, from time to time, for Tractor Jim has his pension fund in sheds down the road. It is a veritable Srapheap Challenge, a fleet of bygone days he would say, fleet that is for the one where the engine sparks to life and the wheels turn, or they’ll have to next week for the annual road run when the Vintage Tractor Club clog the roads for miles around. In various stages of decay, from vintage Fordson blue to umpteen shades of rust. A fortune on eBay these days he says; a project to keep him out of the house post retiral, she dictates. So he’ll be around, and I’ve a chainsaw needs fixing, but I digress.
Rays of Sunshine it was I think, and I recall bright dollops of springtime yellow dotted about the garden. No it was not the tubs of daffodils, though there were a few of them as the first spring in a new garden brings new discoveries. No, it was yellowhammers, and several pairs of them, around the feeders, on the trees and flitting about the hedges. I’ve never seen them before. It would be nice to have rays of sunshine in my garden, but they’re indoors, breaking fast on chocolate.