Re-potting, not mowing, aphid control, less cake more quiche and Tiktok
laetitia.substack.com
Hello friends! My brain is broken. So I do what I always do when my brain is broken and reach for my bullet journal, which usually has the information I need, written down. But no, I remember that I haven’t written in my bullet journal for three weeks. Nothing. Not a sausage. It’s not like I actually JOURNAL friends… I use it purely as a sort of bin, where I put everything, however dis-jointed or badly advised, so that I can then refer back when I need to. It’s a strange compendium of lists upon lists upon lists, with many pages full of plans for certain weeks, events, days, perhaps a few recipes…you get the gist. But my goodness it is useful, for I have only to look at a single paragraph or part of a list from a certain week, and the synapses of my addled brain are sparked suddenly, and I have a clear view of other things, important things. I think the empty journal must be some sort of rebellion. We have been deluged since the beginning of this crisis with voices telling us to write it all down…make a time capsule! Write a diary! Tell us how you are feeling! What you did! How you coped! The idea is that this stuff will one day be pulled from a dusty bookshelf by some great grandchild on her way to school as they learn about how we tried (and failed) to deal with a pandemic that we knew for decades was coming. I won’t do it. The closest I’ll get to it is, well this! Although I know what day it is, I have no idea what I’m doing, so the safest thing to do is go auto-pilot, and that’s what I do ( in the garden at least).
Re-potting, not mowing, aphid control, less cake more quiche and Tiktok
Re-potting, not mowing, aphid control, less…
Re-potting, not mowing, aphid control, less cake more quiche and Tiktok
Hello friends! My brain is broken. So I do what I always do when my brain is broken and reach for my bullet journal, which usually has the information I need, written down. But no, I remember that I haven’t written in my bullet journal for three weeks. Nothing. Not a sausage. It’s not like I actually JOURNAL friends… I use it purely as a sort of bin, where I put everything, however dis-jointed or badly advised, so that I can then refer back when I need to. It’s a strange compendium of lists upon lists upon lists, with many pages full of plans for certain weeks, events, days, perhaps a few recipes…you get the gist. But my goodness it is useful, for I have only to look at a single paragraph or part of a list from a certain week, and the synapses of my addled brain are sparked suddenly, and I have a clear view of other things, important things. I think the empty journal must be some sort of rebellion. We have been deluged since the beginning of this crisis with voices telling us to write it all down…make a time capsule! Write a diary! Tell us how you are feeling! What you did! How you coped! The idea is that this stuff will one day be pulled from a dusty bookshelf by some great grandchild on her way to school as they learn about how we tried (and failed) to deal with a pandemic that we knew for decades was coming. I won’t do it. The closest I’ll get to it is, well this! Although I know what day it is, I have no idea what I’m doing, so the safest thing to do is go auto-pilot, and that’s what I do ( in the garden at least).