I serendipitied into two pairs of good pants at Suzy Shier, not a store I'd ever buy at because I don't fit women's sizes. But they have a small line of plus, and they had two black rayon 2XLs for very little, so now I'm set for everything but the hottest weather. Their 2XL is actually a mite too large, which is heartening, because I can't wear the general run of women's XL; and anything that lets breezes blow about one's limbs is to be encouraged.
Did a wash and hung it on the line and it dried in no time and only the pants had bird poo on them. Win! Tackled the hedge finally, which is now a lot lower than it was, though no healthier on my side. Vast forests of dead wood. Had I a good electric saw or trimmer I'd take the dead bits out and replant, but this will do for the nonce. And finally repotted the philodendron and added the cuttings that have been sprouting in water for more than a year. We shall see if they survive.
So a good sweaty healthy day, and now for a hot shower and hair wash.
(Oh, and LJ on my phone has everyone in my own style. I'm fond of my own style for me, but seeing everybody against a pink background is disconcerting.)
The last three Ruth Gallaghers (6, 7 & 8) except the current published-this-year. The Outcast Dead was the child murders one which for obvious reasons I found hard to read; The Ghost Fields had the Cold Comfort Gothic family with something nasty in the pig pen and was rather fun; The Woman in Blue was a bit far to seek in its resolution, which was not sufficiently fictional tidy.
Agatha Christie, Why didn't they ask Evans?, found thanks to my DW circle. It's a large-print edition which always keeps the action at a distance for me, but it's Christie and nothing horrible can happen in her world.
Argh again. Should tackle Mt. TBR, but do I really want to read The Vintner's Luck with its embarrassing self-pubbed-looking cover? Or could re-read some Tiffany Aching, but Tiffany in June has bad memories for me. Read the first one in 2010 during the G20 Summit fiasco and the bad association still lingers. Maybe re-re-read Going Postal with much happier Juneish associations?