Deadline

You can usually tell when She Of The Townhouse is multitasking. The smell of something burning in the kitchen is the standard giveaway, often accompanied by the chirpy little tone of the smoke alarm. You can guarantee that she has started cooking and then at some low point in the proceedings has remembered that her nails need filing somewhere else. Time once again for the boy and I to screw our courage to the sticking place and pronounce surprise and delight at the offering proffered, complimenting her on how stunningly it exceeds the representation on the box.
I may though have explored this theme in the past and so in order not to bore you gentle reader let me look at the spectacle that meets us today.
Today she leapt out of bed at the crack of a sparrows eyelid and larklike has single-womandly reorgainised a swathe of the acre. Weeding, pruning, watering, tending, erecting trellis work, potting on, transplanting, wheeling the wheelbarrow too and fro from the domen and generally tutting and cooing at her plants. The little woman knows no rest. The garden here has seldom seen such devotion and attention over such a sustained period. Even the busy little bees that visit the big sage bush have told her to take it easy. But she cant you see. If she breaks for a moment then she will have to address the essay from college that sits on the kitchen table