The art of digging a pit
Outside, in that brief time before sunset. No wind. Temperature almost like indoors. Sounds blissful, right? Not quite.
I was tasked with digging a hole. Nothing big, no mine shaft. About the size of a large wastebasket, or the root ball of a fresh tree. And if the bugs hadn’t caught up with me, just as I discovered why people build roads with the local shale-clay blend, I’d be good. Right now, I’m hoping for something cool and blustery in the morning.
Seriously, work with a small shovel is harder than I remembered; or perhaps, I’m recalling my efforts on the local beaches, above the tide line. I can’t imagine how people ever got it done before the invention of the backhoe and TNT. And remember, my dream is small. No cellar hole or well involved.
On a different tangent, how about those politicians in the wake of the Brexit referendum? So far, anyone that has been tagged as “the next leader” has managed to suddenly remember a previous commitment and retired from public service. What’s next? An ad on the local equivalent to Kijiji, seeking an individual with a desire to rise to the top very quickly? I’m not interested, but when that ad appears, I’m grabbing a copy for my scrapbooks.
This is turning into a very curious year for the fans of political strategy. The Brits might get their affairs straightened out just before the big election to the south of here. I’m glad that we have a few more years of surfing the “sunny ways”.
