Friday, September 08, 2006

Green, green grass of home...

Gardening. Which isn't easy if your grass is as long and your roses as overgrown as ours. I made the task more exciting by changing the strimmer blade with the strimmer still plugged in and shifting rose branches in short sleeves and without gloves. Usual comments from the neighbours: "Do ours next?" "Still at it?" and, "ooh, look at that small cat sat in the window". It all seemed like a good idea when I got up but now I ache and my arms make me look like a self-harmer. Which, in a way, I am. If I were like a lot of other playwrights in the country right now I'd be far, far away from secateurs and, instead, be penning a play about slavery/William Wilberforce in readiness for the bicentenary of the Abolition Bill. But I'm the only one that hasn't been asked to write such a piece. Which is maybe just as well today, as there'd be a scene about pruning and making a compost heap. Apparently when Alan Plater was writing a play about football a couple of years ago he was watching Wimbledon out of the corner of his eye and ended up with several pages of tennis in there.

Looking towards a weekend that should include sitting in a park listening to music, cutting up paper and eating curry. If you see me at Hull Mela say hello. I'll be the one with grass stains on my jeans and arms like Richey Edwards.

Listening: Josh Rouse - Home.


bazza27 said...

Don't you just love neighbours?

Dave W said...

They do love to talk in a cliche those neighbours, Bazza. It puts me right off doing stuff like washing the car in the street, cos if I hear, "is it its birthday?" one more time you'll be reading about a neighbourhood massacre (and hence the filthy car!). I also have a neighbour that leeches my broadband connection!