Having a slow day - think I'll blog

I've been working my butt off for the last couple of weeks, and I haven't had much energy for working today, so I've essentially taken it off. I did some emails first, just so they don't overwhelm me, and then I spent time in the garden with my animals. We've recently moved the rabbit, Robbie, outside. He used to be in the living room, and pretty much had free run of the house, apart from being locked up at night. That was fine until he decided there were more interesting places to poo than in his litter box. Now he's on the lowest of our lawns (this being Wellington, our garden spaces are all at different heights).

The biggest risk to his being free-range, as our last bunnies were, is the neighbour's cat, Murphy, a giant of a boy who deliberately and with malice aforethought terrorises our tortoiseshell, Scarlett O'Hara. (I can't take credit for the honourable literary provenance of her name - she came from the Cats' Protection League already labelled.) But as it's the school holidays, and Murphy's away boarding somewhere, I'm taking advantage of his absence to get Robbie used to running around the lawn and bolting for his cage when startled. He's so far spent most of his free periods sniffing everything he touches (and in my garden there's a lot to touch) and generally exploring.

Athens, our black and white smoosh of a cat, loves playing chasing with Robbie, so they both got plenty of exercise. Scarlett, who proudly lives up to the reputation of the "naughty tortie" has recently been trying to play as well, but she's really not very good at it. She doesn't like to be touched, so when Robbie comes up and puts his nose against hers she takes offence and bats at him with a paw. He doesn't care - he hops away and finds something else to do.

Which should mean that he's at risk of being mauled by Murphy. However, the one time Robbie was running around when Murphy came inside, as he does, to steal food if I've forgotten to cover it up, Robbie wasted no time getting to know the new guy, and took off. So I think he'll be ok by the time Murphy gets back. He'll know his way around, and be able to hide in his house.

So there I am, out in the garden, pulling out onion weed and Japanese anemone (a noxious weed I was persuaded to allow to grow when it introduced itself because I was assured it was pretty when in flower, but which could easily take over the world long before climate change kills us all) and I've got two cats hurtling around, the duck and the chicken pottering about, and the rabbit coming over for a cuddle. I decided I can stand to continue working for next to nothing for a bit longer, because this life-style is basically awesome. Capital Coast Health might have paid (a lot) better, but clearly money isn't everything, and the Poetry Society is a lot more fun.

Speaking of which, we've found a new permanent home for our monthly meetings. Yippee! From February next year we'll be meeting in the upstairs function room of the Thistle Inn, in Mulgrave St, and better still it won't cost us anything. This is a huge load off, and means one less job I have to do every month, trying to find somewhere pleasant and cheap. And best of all, the refreshments are taken care of - something else I won't have to worry about. I'm very happy.

What I'm not so happy about is Jenny Bornholdt's latest offering, The Rocky Shore. Being JB shouldn't be an excuse for publishing poor work. I'm sure she worked very hard on it, but there is very little in it that's memorable, and I was most of the way through it before I had my familiar tingle of, "Aah, this is what Jenny's good at." And then it was over. I tried reading some of it aloud, a good alternative Harvey Molloy reminded me about last week, but it only made it worse. The occasional half rhyme (and at one stage she points them out, in case you've missed them) isn't really enough to hold together prosy couplets that have no discernible reason to be laid out on the page like that.

Maybe I'm getting old and cynical, but I don't want to read any poet blathering on about the poem while she's writing it, as though stream of consciousness can replace real thought. Or maybe I'm just being harsh because I was disappointed. The cover's the best thing about it - up to Sarah Maxey's usual standards. Shame about the poetry.