A plethora of door-stops

I have made twelve door-stops from scraps of material and a bag of play-sand. I have made decorative hearts with ribbon and have about a hundred potted plants - all ready for a car-boot (now post-poned to next weekend) sale to raise money for the 'family crisis'. I have various old ornaments, toys and knic-knacs too. It's what families do... help each other in difficult times.

I've just found out that the family crisis, or debt has now been paid for by my 'ex'. So, does anyone want to buy a door-stop? I have tried, in my own little way to help, but it will no doubt go unnoticed. If there is to be no car-boot sale next week, then I shall give all plants away to my fellow Green Gymmers.

No tears today... feeling not so 'down' any more and had an enjoyable morning at the one in four Saturday Green Gyms. Just a few of us women who worked hard in a Memorial Garden in the rare sunshine. Then I worked hard in my own garden, wishing I had a bigger plot in which to be creative. Ah well, any garden is better than no garden. It took me ages to figure out why the water wasn't coming out of the watering can... a frog was trapped in the spout. I lay the can down and he eventually came out and is now hiding somewhere in amongst my undersized runner beans.

The Lost and the Lonely

Thank you Puddock for your kind words which always make me feel more normal in my disjointed world of bereavement.

I walk pass houses in my little lane and wonder who lives there and what they do... it isn't a friendly lane in the way my childhood street was. People keep to themselves and nod or smile when I walk past and happen to catch someone by their front door or their car; but I don't get invited anywhere or asked in for a cup of tea. I never see anyone; they're either at work I suppose, or hiding away, or out and about with others. The houses in the picture are at Ripley, all very pretty and uniform, but with no clue as to the personalities of those within.

My heart is still heavy and I don't know why. I've cried and cried all day, and I know it isn't hormones as they have been kept in tight control since 1989. I went to the Gym and found that for some reason we ladies had to use the men's locker rooms and the men had to use ours. Strange! Amourous little man was there and smiling at me. The snake with goggles wasn't there neither was the predatory female. I swam fast and left without acknowledging the frequent smiles. I'd rather go home to my cats, meal for one and watch a DVD than embark on a date with someone who only comes up to my armpits.

Perhaps tomorrow will be better. I have to say that - having declared myself as an optimist! Apparently optimist live on average, seven years longer than pessimists. Is that a good thing?

I don't think I'm helping other bereaved people with these words... sorry! Will try harder tomorrow!

Tranquility and Bat Boxes

Good day at the Green Gym - making Bat Boxes - of a sort! They weren't perfect, but Bats may like them. I wanted to paint them and write words like 'Dunroamin' on the front. All the boxes have gone to the local Bat Society, who may or may not like the results. However, the experience was good for all involved.

The afternoon was spent making door-stops out of left-over fabric samples and play-sand ready for the car-boot sale this weekend... all to raise money for the family crises, of which I will not go into.

No real Gym tonight... too knackered and not in the mood to repel amourous ageing men in the Jacuzzi. Don't know whether it's the time of year or just that I'm tired, but not a good evening and very 'down'. Will probably wake up tomorrow feeling fine. Just one of those moments that pop up every now and then. It's been a while since feeling like this, but I suppose it's bound to happen. Grief just doesn't disappear, it just hides until a moment of low confidence or when the weather gets me down, or just for no reason at all.

For the Chop

My geraniums didn't get the 'Chelsea Chop' because they didn't flower until after the Chelsea Show. They will get a chop next month in the hope they will then flower again in late August or September. My box didn't get the 'Derby Day' chop either - I forgot, so will be giving them the 'next week chop' instead.

I thought the admirer I had last year at the Gym had also been given the chop, but no! He's resurfaced and is trying again to catch my attention in the Jacuzzi. He is even getting his friend; an amiable Welsh man, to talk to me whileI sit in the Jacuzzi. There's nothing wrong with the Admirer - very well formed muscles in all the right places and now covered in a deep mediterranean tan, with chest hair silverish and head hair shaved close which suits him and is at least tidy. Teeth okay and eyes blue. He's just not my sort and much shorter than me. Perhaps I'm just too picky!

I smile politely and go for a long swim, deciding that the Jacuzzi is too hot a place to sit for long. I left after showering and dressing, passing them in the bar, not looking or making eye contact. There's no use in giving the chap any hope. My lovely man was too tall and handsome for anyone else to match up to. So, the problem is definitely me!

Odd requests but not for a Massage Club

Is it me? I was just about to start the next chapter of my writing when the phone rang at this late hour... I walked into my bedroom thinking 'this is probably another call for a call girl'; I answered "Yes?" The reply: "My friend wants a prostitute..." I interrupted, "You have misdialled, this is not a massage club or anything else, goodbye." He persisted, "no, listen, my friend really wants a prostitute now..." I answered, "Tough"! I hung up.

What is it with men? If I think about sex I dig the garden or go to the Gym and pound the treadmill. Men think they have a right to phone and demand a prostitute. Have women (in general) made this so? I don't know what to do about this... I really don't want to change my phone number as it is linked to all sorts of electronic systems and to a lot of friends and family etc., and why should I? I think I shall just make their lives difficult by answering them in any way I see fit at the time.

Most of these phone calls result in an apology from the embarrassed caller. This time the caller refused to accept that he'd dialled incorrectly and kept insisting he wanted a prostitute. He was either drunk, (very probable), or very stupid, (even more probable), or both. Now, I know that I miss intimacy and contact of all kinds with a man, but I could never consider allowing a man to use me. I think any woman who does this kind of thing for a living is a tough woman and has a clear view of what is just a job, and what is intimacy. I admire her ability to distinguish between the two and to earn a living thus. Me? I'd make each man dig an allotment, cut down a tree and erect a wooden shed... then see if he was still up for anything. If he was, then he'd be my kind of man!