If the day after the Pewsey Carnival felt like Christmas Day, the day after our Martinsell Hill trek felt distinctly like Boxing Day. Nothing stirred in the house—apart from the quiet clack of my keyboard—until well past 8:30 AM.
When I padded into the kitchen for my morning cup of tea, the dogs raised their heads weary-eyed from their beds, looked at me, and immediately curled back down. My body was quietly lobbying to join them, but my mind was awake and buzzing.
Over breakfast, Karen began compiling one of her signature lists: Shopping, photo boxes in loft, washing, picture frames to Cossor’s. I noted with relief that none of these explicitly named me—at least, not yet. As I poured a much-needed second cup of coffee, I eyed her notepad warily, wondering how long it would take for her agenda to morph into Mark’s To-Do List. To be fair to Karen, every single item was entirely valid and had been quietly bugging me too.
My own list, drafted earlier in the quiet of the morning, was somewhat lighter: 30 minutes of TT practice, 30 minutes of reading, resolve the Wednesday night Village Hall clash.
If Pikachu could write, her list would simply read: Eat breakfast, sleep in a sunbeam, eat tea, sleep somewhere warm. The Border Collies would be entirely content with: Chase anything that moves, locate garden toys, herd humans.
Inevitably, ‘photo boxes in the loft’ turned out to be a ‘Mark’ job. In truth, a three-man winch team would have been more appropriate. The primary box weighed roughly a quarter of a ton. As I hauled it towards the hatch, I began to seriously question whether our ceiling joists were structurally rated for this volume of nostalgia.
Inside was a complete historical archive: bound albums, loose snapshots, framed prints, and even photos painted onto decorative plates spanning several decades. We decanted the box and couldn’t help but get drawn into trawling through old memories.
“That’s a job for another day!” Karen announced hastily, spotting the nostalgic glaze over my eyes. I privately thought: That’s an item for another list, when my current list is already overflowing!
By early afternoon, the covers were off the decking furniture as September delivered another gloriously warm, sunny day. Going completely rogue, we abandoned our carefully planned lists and spent the afternoon working in the garden. Clearing the area beneath the conifers had once lived on an ancient list titled Garden Jobs to Do When the Sun Shines.
Gardening, we concluded, isn’t really a set of tasks at all; it’s a lifestyle, a continuous test of willpower, and a never-ending cycle. We could both spend every hour of the day out there. I’ve officially given up making garden lists—they are inherently infinite.
That’s the beauty of it, though. The garden grows, adapts, and evolves through the seasons completely unprompted. And I am fairly certain Mother Nature doesn’t bother with a notepad
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