The fact that nothing could be further from the truth is something that I'm probably never going to know her well enough to tell her. It's entirely my garden; I built it, and in latter years it was the place I used to go to escape from the house and my mother. It was the one place I had control and peace. But I'm not going to tell her that. It wouldn't matter, except I loathe the notion that she regards me with pity. She's the type of woman for whom my current postmodern bohemian spinster lifestyle and tastes would be completely alien. I think of her as the kind of woman that Shelley Duval as she was in the beginning of Robert Altman's Three Women would grow into (ha - how's that for a nice obscure filmic reference!!). She'd no more watch Buffy than a Quentin Tarantino movie. Bet she watches The Ghost Whisperer! Meow.
Oh well. As you can tell, I gave in to the temptation to go out into the garden. And when I came in I gave both my dogs a bath (Robinson rolled in some cat poop, so it was actually necessary in one case) and washed the floors of my entire house. And threw the dog beds into the washer. Then I had to wash the bathroom post dog bath. Then I decided to change my sheets so that I can go the whole hog tonight after my own bath - such luxury: clean house, clean sheets, clean dogs.
No marking, however. Oh well. It IS the weekend, after all.