mjj (flemmings) wrote,


New Next Doors were out gardening in the gloaming y'day evening when I went to put the garbage out (which He-NND did for me, manhandling the wheelie bins that hurt my poor poor elbows.) 'So,' they said, 'we've had the arborist in about the plum tree and we're waiting for the city inspectors to give us permission to take it down.' ?, I said. It's a backyard tree and none of the city's business, surely. But no. If a tree is big enough the city makes it their business, regardless of location. Go the city, I suppose. Not that it seems to prevent monster houses built to the lot line.

'And you were talking about trimming the cherry,' they continued. 'We were wondering if you wanted to use our arborists for that?' I thanked them civilly but said I really only trust Cohen&Master (not to butcher the tree, I did not say, but was thinking.) Then went back inside, all verklempt over losing the sweet plum blossoms.

Nous n'irons plus au bois
Les pruniers sont coupés.

However, shou ga nai. As I said to the NNDs, it's five days of lovely blossoms and three months of unripe/ rotting/ half-gnawed fruit all over the lawn. But yes, might as well get that cherry looked after before it grows any higher, so called the firm today, because really, what does it matter anyway? (It's not quarantine getting to me, BTW, it's the 'not able to walk' crippledness getting to me. Both may eventually have an end, but neither is guaranteed.)

Then because anxiety-prone me doesn't really trust a taxi driver to deliver my single copy tax forms to the accountant, I asked cher frère to do it for me. Cheer freer reminded me the other day that they feel beholden to me for lending them my basement, so I suppose I can call on him with a clear conscience.

Then finally started jumping through requisite hoops to activate the $100 gift card Bell gave me for tripling my monthly bill by getting broadband. Hoops involved rustling out old emails from the end of January, deciphering a series of unreadable captchas at the website, and a minor meltdown over 'enter your code'. Code was apparently the number printed on the form confirming the new service, which had been sitting on the front room table for over three months but was nowhere to be found now. Went through stacks of paper, files, bag of to-be-shreddeds, and finally thought, Buddhistically, 'the hell with it anyway' and went to delete the email. Where was written, in bold letters, Enter this code. So now I'm 'awaiting approval' and thinking I'm too old for this world. While the cherry blossoms droop gently in the rain...
Tags: rl_20

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