The children spent hours today picking and eating our grapes. And feeding them to the hens. Until I realised what was going on and managed to save some.

Unfortunately the hens aren't interested in our monster zucchini. Which seem never-ending. There's only so much zucchini one family can eat. 

And believe me, we've given it a good crack. Zucchini pie, zucchini chocolate cake, zucchini pickles, zucchini muffins....not to mention the twelve or so bags of grated zucchini in the freezer. It gets to a point where you can't even give them away. Not if you ever want your friends to visit you again.

  

It's taken many weekends and weeknights of sanding, more sanding and painting...

 

but Charlie's big-boy bed is finally finished. And to think it's come all the way from a little old house in Nethercote, across the Tasman, to Wingatui. I bet old Billy Fourter never thought in a million years that a little Charlie Morrison would be sleeping in it.

This is what happens when you encourage your children to be independent.

For about two months now, I have been asking Bern to lop off a low-hanging branch that stops the clothesline from turning. This week he finally agreed to do it. Except instead of just lopping off the small branch, he decided to saw of the entire bough. Which landed ON the clothesline. And broke it. Just like that. Snapped the top clean off.

To say I was angry would be a bit of an understatement. The broken top of the clothesline sat on our back lawn for a few days while I seethed and drove our washing into Mosgiel to dry on a friend's line. Then finally I had the idea (yes, I'm taking the credit for it) to flip the top over and re-attach it. Which worked. And provided some free entertainment for our neighbours, who watched our almost-divorce from a safe distance. Unfortunately the line is lower now, so if you're not careful, the sheets drag on the ground. Which drives me insane. But at least I have a clothesline again. And I will never, ever ask Bern to trim any branch again. Ever. Which was probably his plan all along.

Charlie likes helping me with the fruit. Today he especially enjoyed tipping the plums out onto the kitchen floor and skidding all over them while I frantically tried to save them. At least he decided to help me pick them all up. So he could tip them all again.

These past few months our little orchard has been producing more fruit than we can keep up with. It started with apricots, then plums, then more apricots, then the first of the apples. And now we've moved onto pears, more plums, and more apples. Three more trees of apples. We have buckets of fruit everywhere and are giving it away to anyone and everyone. And we're spending a great deal of our time doing this.

But it's wonderful not having to buy fruit. It's even better watching the kids pick and eat their own fruit, whenever they want.

The ducks are still alive and well, and continue to be a constant source of entertainment. Grace can usually be found somewhere in the yard with a duck under each arm, and she takes great delight in giving them swimming lessons and digging up worms for them to devour.

There is, however, the small but significant issue of gender that has her anxiously on the look out for the development of curly tail feathers. If they are boys, their tail feathers eventually start to curl up, but so far there's not a curl in sight. Just in case, we have prepped Grace for a possible name change. She isn't that keen on the possibility of 'Jem' and 'George and is remaining optimistic, assuring us that the girls will lay eggs any day now. 
 

Charlie, on the other hand, doesn't care either way. He's more interested in trying to catch the ducks by their necks, chasing them around and around the yard, and laughing uproariously every time one of them does an explosive poo.