Are you deaf?

Sunday morning, still riding high from three sold out performances of The Death of Me.

Take my cappuccino outside to have a fag and check on the progress of the fuchsia Irmani bought for me last year. Yes, lots of new shoots coming along, so, unlike the one I bought for the garden, this one is going to come back beautifully.

As I turn back towards the door something (or rather the lack of something) catches my eye.


Difficult to tell from the picture, I know, but the two pots of chives, which were coming back nicely, have been nibbled down to the soil, as has the returning parsley. What the fuck? I’ve had herbs growing in pots by the back door for two years and the deer – who are not supposed to like herbs – have never touched them. Bambi bastards.

So, a trip to the garden shop to buy replacement chives and parsley. Clearly these can no longer be safely planted so close to the house.

Down to the garden, where I weed and add manure to one of the raised bed sections. (Yes, cherry tomatoes have successfully grown in this soil for the past two summers, but, as previously noted, they will grow anywhere. Nothing else I’ve ever planted in these beds has survived, so let’s hope the manure does the job.)

As I am completing this task, two women, out for a walk, stop to say hello, as you do on Gabriola. After commenting on the beautiful colour of the blue hyacinths, one of the women points at me and asks, “Are you deaf?”

Not at all sure what I’ve said which could have prompted this, I say (rather appropriately) “Pardon?”

She nudges her friend, looks at me, says, “You are, aren’t you? From the play?”

Ah, I’ve misheard her. Death, not deaf. Yes, I admit, I am the Angel of Death.


They tell me they loved the play, thought I was fabulous.

My soil may be crap, the deer may be chomping my chives, but apparently I’m a star. Not a bad day.