This morning Hubby was busy doing his hunter, gatherer thing which involves chopping and splitting logs. I was lurking indoors, recovering from intensive Grandparenting, by indulging in on-line consumerism, when there was a tapping on the window. Hubby was gesturing toward the back-door and by a certain degree of mind-reading and assisted by years of playing charades I interpreted his posturing as indicating I should open the back-door. My Hubby is one of the most accident prone people I know and as I moved through the house to get to the door I realised that he had been cupping one hand and looking intently at it’s contents. Oh lordy, he had been using the chainsaw and had already nicked his nose, had he now managed to chop off a finger? Was that what he was holding so carefully? That would be why he couldn’t open the door. I increased my pace and grabbed a phone as I passed. A list of items flew through my brain; plastic bag; ice cubes (blow I haven’t made any in the new freezer); frozen peas then; clean tea-towel, I flung open the door and looked into Hubby’s cupped hand and there it was –
Hubby has come across it whilst wielding his chainsaw, so it had sawdust all over it and my task was to clean it up. I did the best I could using a fine-haired artists paint-brush and then put it back in the driest, most secluded part of the woodpile. How had it survived the snow and cold? Lovely to see something so delicate, beautiful and summery in chilly December.