It is calling me now. Next week my mum comes for her annual visit to the farm. And it’s amazing how that spurs me into doing things I have been putting off for months.
Like cleaning my room.
In this case the potting shed. I have way too many plants that need organising and moving about, potting on and planting out.
He fussed and shrieked until I made a little space for him in the jungle of plants. Then he promptly lay down to sleep; but kept an eye on me from time to time to make sure I wasn’t going to take away his toys.
It took all day. I kept ferrying the fragile plants that aren’t ready to go into the ground to the open barn about fifty metres down the track. Back and forth. Plod, plod.
And in between I potted on basil seedlings, moved more brassicas up a pot size. And generally turned it into a space I would be proud to show off.
I tend to put about four small – searching for the word – pods of grasses into a larger one with plenty of fresh compost and space for the grasses to take off.
If all goes well I can get them out later this spring.
But he kept batting away any chance to sweep around him. So he was dozing in old compost.
But eventually the sun became too warm for a cat in a fur coat and he lumbered off to go outside and flop in the shade. And I whipped out my dustpan and brush and had that bench top cleared and then cleaned in no time.
I have put green house shading onto the top of the polycarbonate roof. And have all the windows and doors open. But it is too warm for small plants. And elderly cats. So he is sulking. And I am beaming.
Every now and then I get to show him just who owns this potting shed. It’s an illusion of course. I’m such a sucker for the comfort of the critter. But I did get cross when he parked himself right at the entrance to the potting shed preventing me from plodding to the barn with my plants. Territorial wars indeed.