Scolt Head

from East Head

Astoundingly worn out and getting increasingly manic as my time runs out.
Today has been a day of ... ‘I’ll just ...’
... I’ll just do that cupboard...I’ll just do that...then, I’ll just do that before I just do that ... then I’ll just do that and then I’ll stop for a break, but I’ll just do that before I do that, then I’ll stop, but I’ll just ....

With astonishing synchronicity this was on the radio as I was running around like a headless chicken this morning https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000mqnl
I managed to tick off most of the ‘don’t’s’ ... don’t do it on your own, don’t use inappropriate equipment and shift heavy stuff with a defunct wheelbarrow ... and I’ve added lots more of my own. Good to hear Paul Farley as ever ... he talked about his lost stone as I think of my lost teddy.

Steve the Mole catcher came round to say ‘job done’ and could I let Rosemary know ... he said he wouldn’t normally bother until they start to interfere with the graves. I couldn’t get Thomas Hardy out my head ... (I texted Rosemary and she replied that she was glad I’d met ‘Stiffey’ ... his nickname apparently...I didn’t like to ask ...).

I went for a quick cycle break over the common (extra) and than manically carried on until about 4ish when I thought I’d better go if I wanted to swim before it gets dark.

I went down to Overy and walked the bank to the sea. Surf was up. My brain told me the water wouldn’t be any colder than Tuesday night and I’m glad I listened; it was lovely. The change in the weather has sorted the visitors out and it was empty down there. A quick beer in the shelter of the dunes and home to more ‘I’ll just ...’

Just seen, it’s a blip birthday... here’s a poem ...

Ah, are you digging on my grave - Thomas Hardy

Ah, are you digging on my grave
My loved one?--planting rue?"
--"No; yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
That I 'should not be true.'"

Then who is digging on my grave?
My nearest dearest kin?"
--"Ah, no; they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"

But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy?--prodding sly?"
--"Nay; when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie."

Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say--since I have not guessed!"
--"0 it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"

Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave . . .
Why flashed it not on me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among humankind
A dog's fidelity!"

Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting-place."