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In other perspective-shifting news, I need to stop saying I've been here eighteen months; it's twenty-one months now. We will have been married twenty months tomorrow. Numbers: leave them alone, take your eye off them for a moment, and they start rounding out. And rounding up.

And further yet to the it's-longer-than-you-think, I took possession yesterday of my specially-ordered unusually-lengthy English garden fork. Which I am not going to call a spading fork, as seems to be the habit over here; I think that's silly. It's not for spading, it's for forking. It's made by Clarington Forge, and carried an attractive label: English garden tools, hand-crafted since 1780. That's the kind of longevity I like.

What I don't like so much is that I have had to come in for a breather after digging over six square feet of a flower-bed. I dunno: I didn't think I was sick any longer, and I can certainly walk limitless distances, but this shift of exercise is - well, yeah. Leaving me gasping. Oh my chest and lungs, you're supposed to do better than this... (Actually, this is what always happens when I get sick, it takes forever to get my oomph back; and I always forget, so.)

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