Just pottering,’ I reply.
Just pottering… a phrase that’s a catch-all term for this and that—a weed pulled up, a wayward shoot snipped off, all of which tasks combine to make a garden that looks loved and cared for. The dictionary definition is rather too dismissive for my liking: ‘Potter verb: occupy oneself in a desultory but pleasant manner, doing a number of small tasks or not concentrating on anything in particular.’ Well, I might not be concentrating, but that’s the joy of pottering— the ability to slip into autopilot, to let one’s mind wander, perhaps hum that wretched tune that insinuated itself into one’s consciousness thanks to listening to Classic FM when shaving.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة March 11, 2020 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة March 11, 2020 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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