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Take some time out for yourself. You deserve it.
New Zealand or England. Where will you go first?
Take some time out for yourself. You deserve it.
New Zealand or England. Where will you go first?
It’s going okay, this unemployment lark. By Day-6, I admit I’ve found myself super productive, especially in the realm of editing. As you know, I’m taking a tour through my older novels and eliminating some of my former bad habits. I’ve also written 500 words per day minimum, with reasonable consistency.
As a special Day-6 treat, I decided to take myself outside onto the deck for a little outdoor editing to give myself a change of scenery. (Yes, I was dressed – I know you’re wondering.) It’s summer in New Zealand and I thought I’d swank it up a bit for you northern hemisphere dwellers with your fancy snowmen and Disney Christmas images. So I took a photo of my office outside in the sunshine. For you.
Ragwort. Even the name is enough to send horse and cattle owners into a tailspin. It’s a cute yellow headed flower which waves in the breeze and dies off in hay bales where it lays in wait for unsuspecting cattle. There is no cure for ragwort poisoning as the liver damage it causes is irreversible.
I swear it wasn’t there yesterday, but somewhere between Day-5 and Day-6 it had sprouted. The paddock was covered in bobbing yellow heads of death. I texted my neighbour with trembling fingers.
“Hey, you still planning to bale our paddock this week?”
“Yep, tomorrow.”
The rest of my Day-6 morning saw me running around an acre of long grass with a pump filled with strong weed killer which Husband keeps safely locked in the shed. I’m not allowed to play with chemicals because I’m no respecter of ratio and proportion and bad things happen.
So, I mixed it up all wrong and I could see the ragwort melting with each squirt. I swear some of it withered just at the sight of me lurching around in my wellies. Five litres later and I wanted to go back for more, I really did. But my arms ached, my pretty black dress looked like someone dragged me through a hedge backwards and I had an appointment. I’d also wasted a heap of editing time and didn’t get to enjoy my showing off on the deck. Day-6 disaster. Just like Day-5 but without the cafe expulsion.
Before the squirter thing started dripping. I should also add that I’m also not meant to use the squirter thing because I had a little accident a few months ago. I attacked some prickles in our front lawn but didn’t notice the pipe leaking. A couple of days later and our lawn looked like a toxic slug had gone walkabout. We only just finished repairing that…
My call to Husband wasn’t easy. “We need weed spray. It’s urgent.”
“There’s heaps in the shed.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is. It’s on the shelf.”
“We’ve got ragwort in the paddock.”
“Oh. That’s bad. And it can’t be baled.”
“No. And I have to go out.”
“Okay, well don’t you touch it. You’re allergic and you remember what happened last time?”
“Gulp.”
I was dressed, but I almost forgot to slap on some makeup. Almost. I think I look like the undead without makeup. I didn’t want to get pulled over by the cops whilst looking like a zombie. This is a small town. It’s hard to take the cops seriously when I remember them in short pants. It never goes well and they hate being laughed at.
I planned a whole chapter of my work-in-progress. In. My. Head. That’s what I call sucking the productive right out of wasted time. My phone rang as I emerged back into the sunshine I hadn’t yet enjoyed, arm throbbing from my B12 injection. My youngest daughter sounded like she spoke to me from a wind tunnel. I stopped trying to cross the road and stuffed a finger into my ear. The amazing chapter of my work-in-progress fell out of my other ear and a car ran over it.
“You’ve got the what?”
“The wheelbarrow and the spade. You can’t spray ragwort because it’s more toxic when it’s dead. You have to dig it out and burn it.”
“But there’s heaps!” I wailed. “And they want to bale tomorrow. And…I already sprayed it!”
“That’s why I’m calling you.”
And in that moment, my horsey, bachelor’s degree qualified, scientific daughter both delighted and appalled me.
That’s what she says they are and she should know. Dandelion leaves with a ragwort looking bloom. But not ragwort.
“The leaves are different,” she said. “Didn’t you Google it?”
No. It’s hard to Google pictures of flowers whilst wielding a leaking spray can and managing a panic attack.
Unfortunately now, I’d covered the paddock in weed spray and we probably won’t bale tomorrow.
Tomorrow will find me in my office, where I should have stayed today. I don’t care if it’s sunny. Tomorrow is an inside day.
He presented me with a litre can of weed spray which he’d driven to the farm shop to buy.
“No idea where that other bottle went,” he said, handing it over. “It’s a mystery.”
We baled. A week later.
I am banned from the paddock. And the shed…
K T Bowes is a starving artist trying to make a go of this writing thing.
She may be wasting her time, but hopes not.
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You be the judge.
