Nearly three o’clock and not a child in the house washed.

It’s Sunday – a day of rest for us weary workers, not that it makes any difference to me. Some of us are on a seven day roster.

It’s very quiet. There was the sound of a couple of lawn mowers for a while but they have gone quiet. It’s a long time since the swish-rattle of the push mower and it’s all done mechanically now. Briggs and Stratton must be rubbing their hands in glee? Even the smallest of gardens has to have a motor mower now. People are getting lazy.

A Blackbird is singing his head off at the top of one of the trees in the South Wood. All my efforts in loading seed onto the bird table over the winter seem to have paid off. There are quite a few Robins nesting as well along with a grand slua of other small birds. Every now and then I stick my phone out the door with the BirdNET yoke recording. It’s a neat little gadget that records and then identifies all the various species it has heard. It has an historical record of every bird and the date of recording. It does make the odd mistake though, unless a Short Toed Tree-Creeper actually did visit?

There’s no sign of Fucking Cat. We have two regular visits from cats – Boots who belongs to a neighbour and Fucking Cat. I don’t know where the latter has suddenly sprung from but he annoys me. Like Boots, he thinks he owns the place and wanders past the door with his orange and white head in the air. Originally he was just plain Cat but was promoted to Fucking Cat when he started to yowl around the place and spray his scent everywhere. I’m the only one allowed to do that though I tolerate Penny as she qualifies for equal ownership of the land. Now Fucking Cat regularly patrols the terrace yowling his head off. Fucking Cat!

Apart from the Blackbird all is quiet. Everyone in the Manor is asleep.

I think I’ll join them.