Richard Lutz ploughs through the detritus of the past seven days.
Into the garden. April calls. I always start at the back, the bit you can’t really see, and work towards the house. This is based on past experiences wherein I ignored the rear of the patch of earth and it quickly turned into Mad Max territory and deteriorated into a stalking ground for a band of tomcats.
I dig in the compost which has stewed in this big ugly plastic bin for a year. And by doing so, I unearth the remains of vegetable matter from past meals that won’t reduce to a gooey sludge: cauliflower stalks, big leafed things, a couple of eggshells. A clothes pin. I find compost is one of those topics that everyone has an opinion on. Along with the EU referendum, the weather and why Aston Villa are going through the floor into the lower divisions.
The gardening will continue. It never ends. Next stop, the spring potatoes. But at least I will not be cold as I do the digging. I have my new body warmer. It is identical to the past one which was a corker. My son and daughter in law gave it to me for a Christmas present about seven years ago and I literally wore it out. The new one is a twin with loads of pockets and a flannel lining.
Clothes do not so much maketh the man as identify him. Our clothes reflect the person hiding within and advertise the wearer to the world. My wardrobe (if that’s what you call it) is akin to a laundry bin on hangers. Except, of course, for my new body warmer which is still stiff with newness. I guess a decade of constant use will sort that out.
I end the week, which saw me marooned on the M6 motorway for hours because of Easter crush and road works, with a request to review the weekend papers on BBC radio. It prods me to actually use my brain by looking at current and breaking stories. I ramble through after doing my research – which, of course, is mandatory. If you are going to talk about the demise of Tata Steel’s UK operations, you better know about tariffs jobless figures and Port Talbot.
What strikes me ploughing through the Sundays (as they are known in Britain), is the actual lack of real news. What with huge Saturday papers, the web, social media and constant budget cutbacks, the Sundays seem either flaccid or panicking with lurid headlines to grab readers. Sales in this sector have dropped 30% in the past five years.
The session goes well (I think). Or at least I didn’t freeze, leaving an horrendous vacuum of sound on the radio. On the playback I hear this creaky choppy voice continually digressing on the audio file. It’s me. And it sounds Godawful.
