No More Staring into Space - Saturday 28th October Lagarde

One would expect that getting ready for one’s eighth winter would be a matter of routine, and to a great extent one would be absolutely correct. 

The covers for instance, are stitched and tucked in all the right places so they fit just so, the tie down ropes spliced to the correct lengths and stowed on clips so they can be re-used year after year, renewed this year exactly to last year’s lengths.   What one can’t take into account is the wind which comes in gusts in increasing efforts to take the tarp away and making the temperature, already a balmy seven feel like something less.  Apart from the odd plier-pinched finger or rope flicked into an already watering eye there’s not too much feeling to be had out there anyway, and the morning passes with an accumulating degree of annoyance as nothing, NOTHING seemed to be settling into place.

With lunch and warmth and full of soup came an epiphany.  In the battle against the wind, the whole thing had settled a dozen centimetres out of alignment.  Perhaps the new ropes are the correct length after all.   Then the wind stopped, no doubt in preparation for tomorrow’s rain, which made taking it all off and starting again the doddle it should have been.  Another job done, apart from the little triangles left to allow light into the green-gloom of inside while we pack.