Spratts

Jill Spratt, for thus she must surely have been named, could, we are told, eat no lean. Not very likely one feels, however, I feel some empathy. I cannot, well, probably could, but certainly do not like to, cook, so when we have a big family meal, I am happy to clear up afterwards. Kev cooks, I clear. Friends and family mostly understand that I like the clearing away, the pottering, this time they did at least let me do it, but the next step has to be that they need to leave me to do it. One of the great advantages of being the cleaner-upper is the tranquillity. The implied tranquillity. The THEORETICAL tranquillity.
I need a scullery.

Easter Sunday was long. It started at 5.15. I had to drive to YVR for 6.00, Lars and his dad were leaving for Dallas. Then straight down to Garry Point for the daybreak Easter service. It feels so esoteric, because it's a shared service and a small group of differing denominations gather just before dawn by the water, dark figures converging. We celebrate Easter as the sun rises, this time, the sun and two great blue herons, rising from the water, so close.

Today I started back at the Nature Park. Little had changed, except that I had long since been blocked from the City's e-mail server, so there was a mess of stuff to plough through.
The hummingbirds were in place, but there were no frogs, no snakes, no bees. And no coffee.
It seems as though the place atrophies in our absence.