Cat gets legless

The sadistic hay-maker of the other day has just run over a cat in the field behind our house.  The poor creature was waiting for mice, hiding in long grass, when along comes Farmer Pickles in his tractor at some breakneck speed - oops, he notices the mower has got stuck and cuts the engine.  Too late - the cat has lost a leg.  I can't tell you any more, for I wasn't at the scene.  Hedda was though, and reliably informed me that the cat was transported to the nearest animal ER.  As I keep telling you, life in the country is deceptively dangerous.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day in Germany.  My children are disgusted that, unlike "other, normal mothers", I don't want breakfast in bed (I've never liked it - lukewarm tea, then toast crumbs in the sheets for days afterwards) or a nice lunch in a restaurant.  No.  We are going to climb another mountain, forge another stream, and so on.  I spent hours picking the right peak.  It is tricky in these days of exaggerated health and safety.   Any description you might read includes warnings - "do not attempt this climb unless you are absolutely vertigo-free and completely sure of foot" (bad German translation - sorry).  After some hours of contemplation I chose the Teufelstättkopf (Devil's place-head, or something) which, at 1758 metres high, should meet all our needs.  The deciding factor was the rocky summit with footholds and a handrail.  Nice of them to think of all the old-aged pensioners.

Quick subject change before I sign off.  We've been getting many disapproving looks from our neighbours over the last week.  As they have nothing to do apart from keep their garden spick and span, including vacuuming the lawn and dusting the birdhouse, they are naturally intolerant of young flibberty-gibbets like us with jobs, children and other small and insignificant responsibilities to tend.  It was clear that our pretty lawn, dotted as it was with daisies and dandelions, was a real eyesore for them.  Well, they should be happy now.  CG and I toiled for hours this afternoon, turning our little patch into an oasis of which the Royal Horticultural Society would be proud.  And were rewarded by approving nods from Herr NN as he sunned himself next door.  Or maybe he was just dropping off to sleep.  It's tough having nothing to do at all in life.

I have spent a fortune on vegetable plants.  They had better flourish, for I could have spent that sum on a piece of designer clothing, which would look good straightaway and would NOT need watering or fertiliser.  I also had to plant the obligatory geraniums in the window boxes.  They look so small and weedy (I refer only to their physical size).  But we can't not have them.  Round here, a house without window boxes triumphantly trailing geraniums is as rare as a Bavarian dinner without pork, or a farmer without a felt, feathered hat.  It just doesn't bear thinking about.