Well, my camera batteries are dead and I'm recharging them, so no pictures of how the flowers have grown. This weekend I bought replacement plants for the few that didn't thrive (i.e. died) and I also cut back some that had grown too much.
In other news, I recently re-read a few Jane Austen novels, Mansfield Park, Persuasion, and Sense and Sensibility. Now I'm re-reading a novel (The Last September) by Elizabeth Bowen, a British (Irish--but the kind of Irish who belonged to the English upper class) writer of about the same vintage as Virginia Wolf. In fact I think they were friends. Bowen's novels are less maddening to read, however. I can't stand writers who think that the better you write the less your readers understand. Yes I'm looking at you, Mr. Faulkner, and you, Ms. Wolf. As for Mr. Joyce, I don't even look.
Some bloggers, when they write about what they're reading, call it "What's on the nightstand." But I don't keep books on my nightstand, or if I do they soon become dusty. I don't read in bed anymore. It's not as comfortable as reading on the couch. If I want to read, I sit on the couch. If I want to sleep, I go to bed. I think this works because I live alone (except my dog, of course). If I feel like reading, I am never disturbed by the TV or stereo because all these things are my control. (Bwa ha ha.) I don't have to retreat to my bedroom for solitude.
Not that I'm really alone, because my dog is with me. I could get all pious about another reason I'm never alone, but I prefer to trot out the old joke: What do you get when you cross a dyslexic with an atheist? Someone who doesn't believe in dog. I'm eulexic and theist.
Well, time not to read but to sleep. Perchance to dream. Time to knit the ravelled sleeve of care. Great nature's second course? Is that right? Anyway, I'm for Bedfordshire.