This morning I attempted to plant bulbs in the unkempt, state-owned, grassy strip beside our building. I was not successful, for my dibbler hit stones and concrete within a centimetre or so. It also occurred to me that anything could be within that shallow-rooted tangle of green: syringes, broken glass, refuse from an Orange parade. So I scurried away back to our own garden, where I planted bulbs outside the shed, in front of the composter, beside the apple tree, and in a corner of the lawn.
I snuck out there at 7:15 AM, but to my amusement, as soon as I returned to our own garden and began to scrape away at ornamental pebbles, the neighbours began to emerge from their doors. One told me he had been troubled by wasps in the night. Another yelled from above at her bidie-in about the cat.
All in all, it's already been a lively morning.
Although the concept of guerrilla gardening--and buying bulbs--is not particularly thrifty, I know the sight of early spring flowers can dispel work-induced gloom. Also, there are news reports predicting a long, cold expensive winter of high fuel bills and empty shelves at the grocery store. Apparently there is a shortage of computer chips, for one thing, and it seems to me that the Daily Mail is trying to spark a new conflagration of loo roll (toilet paper) hysteria. If they succeed, this will not effect us, for I now buy six months' worth at a time. That said, I may invest £10 in tins of Italian tomatoes today this week. I do not much care if Dutch imports of meat dry up, but tomatoes are life in a tin.
Meanwhile, I am very glad I left B.A. in charge of the fuel bills, for if I had had my way, we would have switched to one of the smaller, cheaper gas & electric suppliers, which have all gone bust. All hail the mighty Scottish and Southern Energy, aka SSE. Thank heavens we are A) on a fixed rate, and B) getting a "smart meter" in November. We are not turning on the heat until November, by the way, as I shall use the national potential emergency to become as tough and resilient about the damp Scottish cold as Benedict Ambrose.
It now seems very strange, but as long as I lived in Canada, I took indoor heating for granted. I think it must have always been included in rent, and my parents never told us--or me, anyway--how much the bills were. Buildings in downtown Toronto are joined by heated underground cities of shops and food courts. You can walk for 30 kilometres underground as warm as toast even as blizzards howl above.
Boston was different. In Boston I lived in an old and draughty house owned by an ancient landlord who violated various laws by dropping in uninvited to count how many people were living there. I don't remember the fuel bills, exactly, but my chief housemate assured me they were astronomical and we were so cold, I spent as much time as possible in Toronto. Ugh, ugh. I don't want to think about Boston. Good Will Hunting is basically a documentary, and The Departed is an allegory about the theology department.
Happily, I am in Scotland now instead, and even if most of us are poor, we don't discuss our neighbours' gynaecological problems out loud on the bus (Boston) or stare murderously at fellow passengers because we are homesick for the Old Country (Toronto).* We will get through the winter by wrapping ourselves in blankets and drinking endless cups of tea. If there aren't enough lorry drivers to bring us tea, perhaps our kind relations in Canada will send it to us.
Incidentally, I cannot be the only person in the United Kingdom irritated by the media referring to the Winter of Discontent. When Shakespeare invented the phrase, he meant that the discontent was about to end, not that anchovies had disappeared from Tesco and People's Energy had gone bust.
*I note that my experience of the world is largely mediated by the bus. This is what happens if you never learn to drive.
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