Errrrrrrrrr.. ,,,, death to all lemon trees.

There was lemon-flavoured carnage at my house an hour or so after midnight last night. "Whack! Whack! Whack!" only a bit of gyprock, R3 insulation and western red cedar separated the pounding blows of the lemons from my temples. Oh why didn't I prune that bloody tree when I could have? A bit of wind and a bit of rain and a non-brick house is all it takes to turn fruit into wrecking balls. Poor ol' InstantJim got up and voluntarily went out into the howling wind and rain and darkness with the chompers for citric destruction. In his slippers. And jammies. Despite the boogey man. How noble is that?!

(Just as well Little Pig No. 3 had gone on poo-patrol earlier that afternoon when it was fine. It's amazing the output of two Irish Setters. I think it exceeds the input. Professor Julius Sumner Miller probably had a formula for it.)


So today we are all trying to see past the bloodshot capillaries in our eyes, which is not good since Little Pig No. 1 has her final mid-year exam this morning. Poor kid. I know! I'll do what I did last time and sit in a circle with the dogs in the lounge room and send her our collective brainwaves! That'll work.

Ommmmmmmm.

Why is it so?

I dunno.

And now for some light entertainment:





Sorry, that's a Sumner Miller joke.

Blame the lemon.