(Notes of a Professional Hypochondriac. Tagebuch eines professionellen Hypochonders)
Decked out in deck chair and straw hat I lounge on my homemade lawn today completely in tune with the Zeitgeist of the wider Bog, musing on the approach of fatal a
nd incurable diseases. The sun galloped out of the East this morning riding fast on the back of a black windstorm as if running away from something nasty nasty nasty. It has hung around cancerously overhead ever since clearly contemplating a counter-atrocity. I have tied my hat to my head and tethered my chair to a passing erratic well lodged in the earth and am now covered for sun, wind, rain, storm or an attack by flying turtles, rare, but not impossible I have been told.
My lawn was torn out
of some sad abandoned tract of bogland whose turf bearing days are not even a distant memory, so barren had its rooty furrows become. It was a forlorn ground, earthless, turfless, stonyfaced as an unwilling bachelor long past his useful reclamation date. Out of kindness I turned the ground out to grass. And with constant feeding, gleaned garden weeds and recycled scutch grass, and with the benediction of the interminable rains-without-end that protect all bog dwellers from the abomination of the sun it has turned into a well watered and lush pasture that now needs two donkeys to cut it and when they are beyont, grows overnight rattling exponentially upwards like a beanstalk until it looks in the morning as if it could feed five cows until they burst like fireworks in the sky. And there would still be enough grass left over for twenty-five good bales of silage to swap for potatoes.
(Next week I shall tell you more.)
Decked out in deck chair and straw hat I lounge on my homemade lawn today completely in tune with the Zeitgeist of the wider Bog, musing on the approach of fatal a
nd incurable diseases. The sun galloped out of the East this morning riding fast on the back of a black windstorm as if running away from something nasty nasty nasty. It has hung around cancerously overhead ever since clearly contemplating a counter-atrocity. I have tied my hat to my head and tethered my chair to a passing erratic well lodged in the earth and am now covered for sun, wind, rain, storm or an attack by flying turtles, rare, but not impossible I have been told.My lawn was torn out
of some sad abandoned tract of bogland whose turf bearing days are not even a distant memory, so barren had its rooty furrows become. It was a forlorn ground, earthless, turfless, stonyfaced as an unwilling bachelor long past his useful reclamation date. Out of kindness I turned the ground out to grass. And with constant feeding, gleaned garden weeds and recycled scutch grass, and with the benediction of the interminable rains-without-end that protect all bog dwellers from the abomination of the sun it has turned into a well watered and lush pasture that now needs two donkeys to cut it and when they are beyont, grows overnight rattling exponentially upwards like a beanstalk until it looks in the morning as if it could feed five cows until they burst like fireworks in the sky. And there would still be enough grass left over for twenty-five good bales of silage to swap for potatoes.(Next week I shall tell you more.)
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