I was originally going to call it Embassy House, or Embassy Cottage. And then maybe the Boiler Room. But mum pointed out the old pig shed adjoining our house was afforded a certain autonomy by its lack of a connecting door; thus it seems a house, or an entity of that kind, in its own right.
And now I am writing this week’s diary entry – rather late on Sunday evening – from said former pig shed. It’s nice in here. Back when I recorded a series of 33 poetry videos in it from 2013-14 it was pretty gross. We kept the rubbish bags in here, and there were some rotten old work benches, and plants kept trying to grow inside through the cob, sand and cement that (barely) held the stone walls together. It was wet, always. And it smelled weird. And it was dark to the point that things could have leapt out at you.
Now it’s got rendered painted walls, a boiler keeping it dry, and carpet and a desk, it’s a whole different story. A rags to riches story. Grime to grandeur. Pig shed adjoining damp farm house to executive embassy suite (or something) adjoining slightly less damp house no longer having much to do with the farms that surround it.
So, what’s been going on this week?
Well: that toad has been hanging around again. Goodness knows what it wants, but it’s there outside the front door every night. One night it actually came in. But I ushered it out in case the dog took a fancy to it.
Sybil had her last ever day at playgroup and we went to Folly Farm (which is really more of a zoo nowadays) and saw some penguins, lions, giraffes, and the rear end of a bongo, which was asleep and not getting up to say hello, despite Sybil’s friend having made a special visit to that area of Folly Farm specifically to see said bongo.
The lawn got half mowed yesterday but then we ran out of petrol. I guess this is a bit like when Stalin never got around to finishing that north Siberian railroad due to lack of sufficient funds and slave labour. Albeit on a smaller scale. The smaller scale of Landskeria when compared with most other nations (and all UN-recognised sovereign entities barring the Sovereign Military Order of Malta, which is just a couple of suspect robed individuals with no land) allows that most things that happen here are likely to seem quite insignificant when compared with “national” events elsewhere.
But that lawn really will be a bugger now, because different bits will be growing at different rates and lengths. There are now three areas of mowing-completion; the recently mown, the relatively recently mown, and the small patch I completely forgot to mow the last time. The latter will be quite wild by now. Anything could be lurking therein.
I shan’t bang on too much this week because it’s so late and the absence of this desk I have nabbed from Tynewydd (the primary residence of the Landskerians) will have left mess, at least some of which I should probably sort before going to bed.
Or, “to floor”, I should probably say. I took the bed to the tip this morning and now our incredibly uneven mattress is on the carpetless floor. Progress often seems destructive at first. “Creative destruction, said Marx, is the fat cat catching its tail.”
If you want to see pictures of my children up one of the ruined walls at Wiston Castle, you’re in luck.
We went there on Friday to celebrate the beginning of the summer holidays, and the fact that it wasn’t raining, which it has been in both Landskeria and Pembrokeshire for most of the past few weeks.
I also took the opportunity to record another few short parts of my poetry video for “Doubt having” from my next collection. It’s been going (on and off) for months now.
Any time I happen to be at a suitably awe-inspiring location where I can’t upset too many people (aside from my own children of course) by shouting at a camera while leaping from behind a rock or something.
The slugs and snails finished off Sybil’s sunflowers, which she was mildly annoyed by. But she got to see them flower, and we didn’t kill our dog by surrounding them with slug pellets. So all in all it was a pretty positive childhood experience I reckon. Well done V for arranging.
Positive childhood experiences are mainly part of her remit. I tent to do more of the shouting at cameras from behind rocks while leaving the kids to feed/wash/protect themselves. I didn’t ask for this burden of undiagnosed genius. It just happened.
I’ll leave you with a couple of panoramic shots of my Boiler House. My Nerve Centre. My Office.
Rest assured that the weather is summery, the environment is stable, and the economy is good.