April 23, 2010

Shakespeare’s birthday.

St. George’s Day.

I painted in egg tempera through the morning. Planted bluebells and ferns in the afternoon, and one forlorn tree peony which the nursery had cast out but I thought I might save. The bluebells and ferns went into new beds, which had to be wrenched from the tangled, almost indestructible mass of ivy roots.

Caroline’s story confirmed that all of us down the row were robbed last Tuesday, our cars rifled. Caroline seems to have been the only one to have lost anything appreciable, though all of us lost our sense of leave-the-doors-unlocked innocence.

Tried to write, got bogged down a few pages in. I’d said everything I had to say and, for the moment, it came to nothing. I hate when I planned to be amusing and I’m not.