Wednesday, 4 February 2015

The not so humble skip. Right up there with an air ticket somewhere hot.

8pm, chicken pie in oven, rocket and balsamic plonked in an artistic heap and I'm feeling positively Delia-like.
It won't last.
Unlike my rosemary, which, despite being largely ignored, is spreading all over the garden at an alarming rate.
Like my ever expanding binbag collection, in the aftermath of a particularly brutal clearout.
And the lid of my oil tank, which appears to have taken up residence next door as a birdbath.

I'd still like a skip, and find myself staring enviously at said skips when I pass, even taking to photographing them.

Skip envy.

At the moment, I think of a skip as a particularly desirable item, right up there with an air ticket somewhere hot.
Somewhere like SdotYam, the kibbutz I have never quite got out of my system.
Although in the neighbouring city of OrAqiva, skips have taken on an entirely different meaning altogether, and are best avoided!

Home as a volunteer, 1990, 1991.
Josh, 1997.


With friends, 2010,  OrAqiva.


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