Cave Cleaning

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.  April has been a fun month, a trip to London to exchange on our flat, some interesting work: editing a voice over, translating a brochure and writing an article on the Montreux Jazz Festival.  And if that wasn’t enough the cherry blossom and lilac are blooming in my garden under a warm spring sun.  And now it is as if  the great film directors in the sky have gone off to direct someone else’s life and pressed PAUSE on Jules Ritter (that’s enough for that one for now).   So I go with it.  I wash ski suits, emptying pockets of ski passes, lip salves, coins and used handkerchiefs. I make neat piles of clothes to be given away to charity.  I take my oleanders out of their hibernation and I clean out my potting shed, sweeping the year’s dust and cobwebs into a big sack.  Inbetween I go for a run, get my legs waxed, buy groceries, go for a catch-up hike with a friend, go to Heidi’s for hot yoga, cook and make an appointment for the dog to get her hair cut. 

It’s nothing new.  Many, many years ago we got up and cleaned our caves – threw out the old bones and perhaps with a few twigs and a bit of blossom made a decoration for the corner or strewed petals over grass mats used for sleeping on. (This is where I hear you all snigger at my version of life as a cave dweller with pot pourri and bedding).  So whilst I wait for the next bit of karma to come my way: completion on the flat, some writing work, I make lemonade and happily clean my cave.