Fiddlers

No, I'm not talking folk violinists like my son, more's the pity. (And yes, one day I will slay that evil You Tube and make it bow to my wishes so you can see him play- but not today.)

I realized something about myself when I went out to pick a fresh bunch of flowers. I fiddle. A lot. I went out to cut some gladioli I saw lying down thinking they'd look good in the vase in my writing area to replace now wilting, drooping overblown pink roses. So, scissors in hand, out I went. Got to the door. Picked up water bottles the kids had left just outside and brought them in for washing and refilling. Out the door again. My climbing creeper has put on a growth spurt and has tendrils hanging like a badly trimmed moustache. So I tucked in all the tendrils and then adjusted the hanging wire because it was drooping under the weight. Now, gladiolis. Nope. Some of the standard roses have clusters of dead heads on them and I have scissors in my hand. Might as well cut them off, right? And since I then have a bucket to put the trimmings in, I'll just fill it with the weeds that are coming up near the azaleas ... oh, and pinch out the azaleas's new growth to bring on more flowers for next year. STILL not near the gladioli.

Okay, gardens do that to people. There's always something more you need to do. Finally, several jobs later, I'm back to write, my gladdies looking very glad they finally got picked. I plan to write a new section of my MS today but ... oh no, on the way I get sidetracked by a kiss scene and I have this great idea about lip textures I want to put in. Then I seek and destroy a few was, change a verb here and there, twist a line of dialogue to make it snappier. Before I know, I've spent the whole day fiddling. Yes, stuff got done, but rarely what I planned.

Any of you fiddlers too? Maybe we could start our own band. "The Wastrels" or something.