I got nothing but love for you…

Bit of the Fleetwood Mac coming in your direction for this Monday Much Love blog.

I did a dance when picking this song which rather alarmed Steve. He said I should have gone for some Slayer, but I quite rightly pointed out that Slayer didn’t do a song about Mondays. If they did, I might do a blog on it.

So what do I have Much Love for? I have Much Love for the things in my garden that are starting to grow. I’ve still got so much to get out though. The onions are coming up, and yesterday I noticed some little dark green and burgundy leaves that mark the beginning of beetroot. The beans and peas were put on hold a little because it was so very hot. I’ve also got much love for the rain, since rain is all good. It’s amazing that since the river Tardoire looked like this:

that it has now disappeared and looks like this:

From the flooding, it’s rained intermittently, but nothing like this. Then it snowed. And then it hasn’t rained since. It’s already looking like it’ll be a dry year. I’m already wondering whether I should even bother with any annuals since watering them is just completely pointless.

So whilst it might be wet out today and I already miss the beautiful sunshine, I have Much Love for the rain.

I’ve also got Much Love for several thousand ebooks I’ve got on my laptop… I’m working my way through Harry Bosch and although I realise I should probably read something literary, like the Booker prize winner, sometimes I just like easy stuff. I know, I know. I’m repetitive. I like cop stuff. FBI, CIA, CSI… any stuff with three initials. If it’s American and hard-boiled, so much the better. But getting these books was like several Christmases all together. I just now need three lifetimes to read them. I was looking down the inventory list going ‘Fantastic… Fabulous… Yes!’ and despite several hundred new books, I’m wading through the older ones I’ve read before. It’s somehow comforting.

I have Much Love for a tiny little thing I bought for 9€ last week… it’s a USB port with 4 USBs. Currently, I have only one working USB port on this ancient laptop. I have to have a keyboard plugged in to it. It’s a long story as to why, involving cat sick and PC World and decisions about £7 keyboards being better value than £200 laptop keyboard replacements. Anyway, I have a keyboard plugged in. This meant I couldn’t use poor remaining USB for my printer or my camera or my webcam unless I unplugged the keyboard.

Not only that, but Steve has added some more memory to this old laptop so now it functions more like a fairly solid 40-something rather than an 80 year old with severe osteoporosis. Much Love. Human beings don’t like change and going over to the reconditioned laptop would have been too sad. Steve wants to F-disk this ancient being of a laptop I am currently typing upon, but I won’t let him. He looks at it from time to time in the same way The Child-Catcher in Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang would look at a school bus full of children.

Much Love to my lovely work life at the moment. Not many people in the world get to say that and I realise I’m lucky to be able to say it.

As for Pam’s Poetry Corner… no natural choice shouted out to me today, so I’ve gone for my hands-down favourite poem ever. Ozymandias. If ever a poem spoke the truth, this does. If you don’t think of this poem every time some populist mass tear down statues of a dictator, then maybe you should. Not only are dictators just replaced by other dictators, but dictators are forgotten. It’s not just Joey in Friends who didn’t know who Joseph Stalin was… it never fails to surprise me how many people of my generation don’t know who he is, or who Idi Amin was, or Pol Pot or what happened during the Cultural Revolution. But then, it doesn’t surprise me either. Tyrants are just as forgettable in the grand scheme of things.

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Shelley

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