"Moi, j'ai les mains sales. Jusqu'aux coudes."
(Me, I have dirty hands. Right up to the elbows)
Suffice to say that the character wasn't talking about compost. And the story didn't have a happy ending. But, aside from people dirtying their hands in political assassinations, there is something blissful about getting dirt under your fingernails.
Now that the landscape has been returned to greens and browns, I have finally got round to planting the tulip bulbs that I received in October. Not being an existentialist, I didn't get on with DOING, but instead just did some thinking.
Ah, I thought when I received the bulbs, October's a bit early for tulip planting, I'll leave it until November.
Oh, I thought in November, November's a bit busy - I seem to be working lots of weekends. I'll get them planted in December
Argh, I thought in December, the ground has gone from mud to frozen in just one week. I'll get them planted over Christmas.
Grrr, I thought at Christmas, somewhere under that white is the ground, still frozen. I shall pelt the frozen ground with tulip bulbs and wail.
And so, half way through January, I've now planted them in pots. The tulips will come up. A little late, perhaps, but up they will come. That's what they do. They act. Existentialist tulips. And I got my hands dirty with soil for the first time in nearly two months.
And so, to paraphrase Sartre: Me, I've got dirty hands. I've plunged them into soil and into compost. And wow, it felt good.