There is something shockingly vandalistic about destroying a tree.
Even a tree that has been reduced to a series of truncated stalks with an unprepossessing collection of green shoots springing haphazardly from the defiant trunks.
Their final crime against humanity (in the eyes of Toni and by god they are sharp) was that the unsightly clumps of greenery attracted mosquitoes. Their fate was sealed.
At this point Irene and her chain saw come into view. Although Irene has possessed this formidable machine of wooden destruction for some time, the strictures of her daughter have prevented her from actually using it. Our mosquito friendly vegetation seemed a prime example of something begging for oblivion.
My past experience with ‘Real Machines’ has almost always ended in tears – either real or metaphorical. I still have the psychological scars from my time in the steel works when I was asked to use a pneumatic drill on a piece of recalcitrant concrete. I was not eager to wield something which had the capability of divorcing my legs from my body with insulting ease.
So I adjusted the helmet and visor to fit Toni, who then, with fastidious care cut swathes through trunks that would have taken us weeks without the mechanical help of a chainsaw.
I was pressed into service to do my share of cutting, but was speedily replaced by the unanimous plea of both people present to allow Toni to continue. I think my approach to slicing the trunks had an apocalyptic flourish which disturbed them both!
The greenery has now been consigned to the refuse area in our street and the garden looks considerably bigger. The flashing lights (don’t ask) are now laid out in a line which outlines the border of the ‘grass’ and limits the verdant green from the volcanic rubble which forms the boundary with the fence next door.
We are not satisfied with the reduction of the trunks we are looking for their complete destruction. To this end we have consulted the internet and are now going to buy copper nails and sprinkle sea salt liberally and fill drilled holes in the stumps with salt as well. If I had any Classical education at all I would proved a witty paraphrase of Cato the Elder and say Arbolo delenda est – though I have no confidence that I have the right Latin word for ‘tree’ and I am far too lazy to look it up, even on the internet! Carthage will look as though it had a light storm hit it when compare with the horrors that we are preparing to visit on the surviving stubborn stumps.
Having ‘smitten them hip and thigh’ we feel that we have accomplished a major work and can now afford to relax and take things easy. Looking back on our lunch it now seems like a partial recompense for our efforts which we were to make later on.
There is a developing story about my watch. I am a sucker for watches and have an engaging optimism that I will find a bargain in the watch department when I am shown a selection on the sea front. I have one particular seller whose watches I am always seduced by and invariably disappointed with. This has culminated in my returning two watches to him on his assurance that he would find me one ‘super’ watch to justify my faith in him.
His English doesn’t exist and his Spanish is suspect to say the least, however he gave assurances that this masterpiece of the watchmaker’s art would be in the safekeeping of a friendly restaurant owner within a week. That was some weeks ago and nothing! Today at lunch he hove into view again and once again with many protestations of sincere intent he assured both of us that the special watch would be waiting for me within a week. This story can run and run! But, unreasonable as my attitude is given all the contrary evidence, I still believe.
Above all today an important step has been taken. I have now been to my new and wonderful bank La Caixa (Catalan to the core) and made an official request for them to transfer all my money from the Worst Bank in the World BBVA (Basque to the core). This means that I really will have to Write The Letter condemning BBVA and all its works.
I will still have money in their benighted coffers because I have a device which allows me to sweep through pay stations on the motorways. The electronic device which records and sends the information sends it to the bank which issued the device: in my case BBVA. The way they got and didn’t issue the device is another element in my condemnation of the bank, but to change would entail me in the purchase of another device. So I will stay. For the time being. But all my real banking will be with La Caixa.
More tasks for tomorrow as the holiday continues.
Even a tree that has been reduced to a series of truncated stalks with an unprepossessing collection of green shoots springing haphazardly from the defiant trunks.
Their final crime against humanity (in the eyes of Toni and by god they are sharp) was that the unsightly clumps of greenery attracted mosquitoes. Their fate was sealed.
At this point Irene and her chain saw come into view. Although Irene has possessed this formidable machine of wooden destruction for some time, the strictures of her daughter have prevented her from actually using it. Our mosquito friendly vegetation seemed a prime example of something begging for oblivion.
My past experience with ‘Real Machines’ has almost always ended in tears – either real or metaphorical. I still have the psychological scars from my time in the steel works when I was asked to use a pneumatic drill on a piece of recalcitrant concrete. I was not eager to wield something which had the capability of divorcing my legs from my body with insulting ease.
So I adjusted the helmet and visor to fit Toni, who then, with fastidious care cut swathes through trunks that would have taken us weeks without the mechanical help of a chainsaw.
I was pressed into service to do my share of cutting, but was speedily replaced by the unanimous plea of both people present to allow Toni to continue. I think my approach to slicing the trunks had an apocalyptic flourish which disturbed them both!
The greenery has now been consigned to the refuse area in our street and the garden looks considerably bigger. The flashing lights (don’t ask) are now laid out in a line which outlines the border of the ‘grass’ and limits the verdant green from the volcanic rubble which forms the boundary with the fence next door.
We are not satisfied with the reduction of the trunks we are looking for their complete destruction. To this end we have consulted the internet and are now going to buy copper nails and sprinkle sea salt liberally and fill drilled holes in the stumps with salt as well. If I had any Classical education at all I would proved a witty paraphrase of Cato the Elder and say Arbolo delenda est – though I have no confidence that I have the right Latin word for ‘tree’ and I am far too lazy to look it up, even on the internet! Carthage will look as though it had a light storm hit it when compare with the horrors that we are preparing to visit on the surviving stubborn stumps.
Having ‘smitten them hip and thigh’ we feel that we have accomplished a major work and can now afford to relax and take things easy. Looking back on our lunch it now seems like a partial recompense for our efforts which we were to make later on.
There is a developing story about my watch. I am a sucker for watches and have an engaging optimism that I will find a bargain in the watch department when I am shown a selection on the sea front. I have one particular seller whose watches I am always seduced by and invariably disappointed with. This has culminated in my returning two watches to him on his assurance that he would find me one ‘super’ watch to justify my faith in him.
His English doesn’t exist and his Spanish is suspect to say the least, however he gave assurances that this masterpiece of the watchmaker’s art would be in the safekeeping of a friendly restaurant owner within a week. That was some weeks ago and nothing! Today at lunch he hove into view again and once again with many protestations of sincere intent he assured both of us that the special watch would be waiting for me within a week. This story can run and run! But, unreasonable as my attitude is given all the contrary evidence, I still believe.
Above all today an important step has been taken. I have now been to my new and wonderful bank La Caixa (Catalan to the core) and made an official request for them to transfer all my money from the Worst Bank in the World BBVA (Basque to the core). This means that I really will have to Write The Letter condemning BBVA and all its works.
I will still have money in their benighted coffers because I have a device which allows me to sweep through pay stations on the motorways. The electronic device which records and sends the information sends it to the bank which issued the device: in my case BBVA. The way they got and didn’t issue the device is another element in my condemnation of the bank, but to change would entail me in the purchase of another device. So I will stay. For the time being. But all my real banking will be with La Caixa.
More tasks for tomorrow as the holiday continues.
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