Death of a Hydrangea (or two)

Today, inspired by hearing a performance of a once very familiar Beethoven sonata at the gig the other night, I decided to see if I could still play it myself. Now it must be all of 40 years since I last played this piece, and almost the same - since meeting The Maestro - since I stopped playing the piano. What was so strange was that I could in fact still get through it - the fingers seemed to remember what to do in a manner most unlike what happens if I try to play something I've never seen before. Not only that, but the auditory memory was there, still linked to the fingers and landing them more or less in the right place at the right time.

By the end of the piece, my hands and arms felt leaden. Now, this could be old age and lack of practice, but I think it was also the result of my morning's work in the garden. I wouldn't dignify the activity with the name of 'gardening'; it was the usual slash-and-burn found at The Blethers only without the burning (the incinerator disintegrated some years ago and Mr B felt it must be environmentally more friendly to take the debris to the tip. It's certainly less fun). Hydrangeas derange me, and I was deep inside one hacking away with the long-handled loppers. Not for me the dainty dibbering in finely raked, rich soil; rather the lone battle with the brambles and the great pile of dead flower-heads scattering in the rising gales which have characterised this dreary day.

Now I see Blogger is having another "scheduled outage at 4pm PDT", whenever that is. If it eats this post, that'll be the last nail in today's coffin. I'm for bed.