Chicken Little with a Sting

I spent all weekend gardening. Out the back, we now have tomatoes and strawberries growing, and a herb garden that includes mint, rosemary, thyme, basil, coriander (cilantro), and parsley. Our front yard is no longer a dirt box that the neighbour's cat can use for her bidness; it's planted with all sorts of flowers: clumping flowers and creeping flowers and scented flowers and bushy flowers. It took me about three hours at the nursery to choose what to buy. I find it really difficult to imagine how things will grow and what they will look like in a month when faced with something small and green in a pot. It was exciting to work in the front garden because there's a flowering gum that arches over our yard. As I worked, drunk bees fell from the sky with alarming frequency. When I first saw a bee stumbling around on the ground I thought it was injured. Then I saw another one, which I thought was the first one in a different place. After the fifth one I figured out what was going on, and then had to forcefully resist the urge to look up.

Some of the less pleasant side effects of gardening (thankfully not including bee stings) are an aching back, arms and hamstrings. Last night I went to Pilates, which I've decided is just a fancy word for sit-ups, which is a polite way of saying abdominal torture. Usually I enjoy at least part of the class - or perhaps I just enjoy thinking about the day that I could maybe perhaps do one of those more advanced exercises. But yesterday, it was pure torture; y'know, one of those gym classes where you spend the entire time thinking, I paid for this???

Speaking of paying, we have copies of our new lease to sign, which list our rent at the old price - as in, without the 10% increase. We think it's a mistake, but aren't going to say anything just in case no-one else notices.