After the hail, it’s too late to ring the bell.

~ Lkvy ~ Leave a comment

As much as I love the convenience of my e-reader, I won’t pass up on a good freebie paperback from one of the many mini libraries spread throughout the city. Many of these book exchanges are in a sorry state: packed with a jumble of yellowing textbooks with out-of-date information, children’s books that look like they were mostly used for teething, travel guidebooks for countries that no longer exist, bread machine recipe books, and more.

Since taking up running, I’ve developed an eye for quality mini libraries. It’s not difficult to tell which ones have turned into dumping grounds for old flyers, even when whipping by in my sneakers. The best ones have a quick turnover of books, and I’ve learned which ones do after a few passes. The last mini library to make me double back had me finish the last kilometre of my run carrying a mint copy of Barbara Kingsolver’s hefty novel, Demon Copperhead, in one hand.

Coincidentally, a few days earlier, I had come across a Reddit thread discussing books that are excellent from start to finish, and Demon Copperhead was among the most upvoted titles. The copy I’d acquired begins with four pages of accolades from individuals and publications, most of whom I wasn’t familiar with. The Financial Times voted it “Book of the Year,” which doesn’t seem like much of a compliment coming from a group of people who get amped over reading about economic current affairs.

Nevertheless, the story has truly been good every bit of the way. By Chapter 24, it dawned on me that I’d developed feelings for a fictional character. A child, no less. I plowed through these last few uncomfortable paragraphs of this chapter hoping the kid would escape their predicament unscathed, even though I knew the narrative wasn’t headed that way. Next time, I won’t be so quick to dismiss the literary choices of Financial Times readers.

Although I didn’t take it home, this book also evoked a strong wave of emotions:

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Sizing up London.

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With my return, a routine I was not eager to resume was my regular dentist visits. This morning I visited the falcon-fancing periodontist to get my gums checked out, as the tiny bump, as noted in this post, has since turned into a pinhole. There’s been no pain, and I haven’t had any “funky taste” in my mouth. Given the complications I’ve had with my dental work over the past two years, my anxiety has provoked some intrusive thoughts. Could it be cancer?

“Shut up, brain, you’re being dramatic.”

“What if it is, though?”

WHAT IF?

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Feeling prickly.

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

All the radishes from the second round of seeds have been yanked from the garden. Those that were left either cracked or turned spongy inside. I’d missed the opportunity to harvest them at their peak. The garden now looks a little tragic, with only the tomato plants showing any promise.

A couple of metres away in the alley, there is a massive blackberry bramble that I’ve been snacking on post-run. There are few scents I find more magical than blackberries on a warm day. As usual, the plumpest berries are high up and well out of reach, so I messaged the landlord requesting to borrow his pole rope pruner, which I’d initially called “the long grabber stick”. Armed with this rusty magic wand, I returned to the bush to grasp at the juiciest of juicy-looking clusters.

The pole rope pruner wasn’t the game changer I’d expected it to be. The berries of beyond were so ripe that they rained down on me when I tugged at the thorny stems, totally missing the bowl they were meant to go in. Half an hour later, I walked away from the bramble in triumph with a large bowl of berries, bleeding legs, and purple splotches on my face.

I’d do it again, but in pants.

It’s been almost two weeks since my return from Slovenia, and I am still dealing with a severe case of the post-trip blues. I’d spent three weeks conversing in sign language daily. Not even in ASL, but BSL: British Sign Language. Before this trip, the extent of my BSL was the manual alphabet and a few signs/phrases such as “good morning”. Now I know over 170 signs. I’ve entered them in an Excel spreadsheet with the intention of reviewing what I’ve learned once a month, and adding to the list with the help of the online BSL dictionary.

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What’s the deal with British food?

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

A few minutes after getting home from work on Friday, my phone notifies me of a new email from work. I usually ignore these when I’m not on the clock; however, this email announced a few free slots for the Royal Victoria Marathon for interested staff. Within five minutes, I’d signed up for my first marathon.

Along with entering my shirt and sock sizes, I was asked what I wanted the announcer to say about me when I cross the finish line. Not that it makes a difference, as I won’t be able to hear it anyway. Nevertheless, I hope they honour my wish:

Before flying to London, I recruited the upstairs tenants to water the garden, as the roomie was also headed out of town for a week. I’d planted new radish seeds a week before I left, fully expecting to return to a new crop of fist-sized radishes, along with a bounty from the tomato, bush bean, and Hungarian hot pepper plants that had yet to bear fruit.

I’d long become disillusioned about my purple moon cauliflowers, of which sprouted leaves that only continued to get larger and more abundant since this June 20 picture:

A week before I was to return, I received this picture via WhatsApp. The purple moons had sprouted in my absence:

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