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Diagnosed with epilepsy at the age of eleven T L Spencer turned to writing as a way to cope with her condition. Her vivid imagination and love of all things paranormal influenced her writing. T L Spencer enjoys all forms of literature and is currently studying at university, hoping to become a teacher.

Wednesday, 21 December 2011

The Package

With there being only four days until christmas, I am completely mystified by the large present that is currently sitting on the leather chair in the corner of the living room. Yes, I will admit, I have been especially spoiled this christmas and am thoroughly looking forward to opening all of the impressive gifts that seem to be sparkling under the tree. But that big box in the corner looks really cool. Mostly because I have no idea as to what it may be.

Sixty cm by seventy cm by about twenty: a big box with shiny snowman wrapping paper and no tag. (All xmas tags have clues on them eg Jolly Lovely Season - JLS Album) There are no clues on this gift- it really is a mystery. On top, also wrapped, are two other gifts, smaller than the main one. What could they be?

I love surprises, but this is driving me mad!!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Thursday, 15 December 2011

The Hole in the Wall

The heat of the March Spanish sun couldn’t penetrate the thick oak doors of the Irish Bar. Not that heat is really an issue, Jack thought, since it’s beginning to get dark. He huffed loudly and looked around, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkened interior. It was actually quite clean, and surprisingly large, even with the thick oak beams on the ceiling. Large dark wood pillars stood in the centre with pride, adding an aged look to the structure, all of them neatly decorated with Irish heroes. Nice, but not what I’m looking for. What Jack wanted was the bar. He was angry, he was annoyed and he really needed a drink.
There it was. Made of mahogany the bar ran the length of the establishment, gracing the right hand side of the building in a soft glow. Like the rest of it, the bar was spotless. There were no spilled drinks, no broken glass. There wasn’t even that faint smell of musk and alcohol. Jack wanted to feel disappointed but couldn’t work up the energy. He was too mad at the other group.
“I thought a college trip to Spain would actually include what most people would call, ‘work’,” Jack grumbled. His film studies group had worked all day and the rest of them had messed around. Yes, they were all only twenty, but they were here to work, not play.
“Yeah, well, maybe I could teach them a lesson. They wouldn’t mess with me.” A voice from behind him made Jack turn and look on in confusion. It was Carl. “I kick box,” he continued in explanation.
Jack scoffed audibly. This was Carl for goodness sake, he couldn’t hurt a fly. He had glasses. “Prove it.”
“No, it’s dangerous.” That’s just stupid, Jack thought as he ordered a round for him and his friends.
Two hours later, after downing a terrifying cocktail of lager and shots, getting very merry in the process, all ten friends were drunk but happily drowning their annoyance. Jack cut into his friend’s lecture and said, “It’s just not fair!”
There was a shout of immediate agreement from his friends, even though most were too drunk to really understand what he was saying and replied with, “That really is a good picture.” As Jack looked at them, befuddled, they pointed to the pillar nearest the bar. The sketch really was quite good, but nothing special. My friends have acquired their beer goggles, Jack thought, chuckling to himself.
He looked up at Carl who looked oddly intimidating, despite his small size. He had taken off his glasses and ruffled his short black hair, looking a bit like Jackie Chan. “I don’t like it,” he said stiffly, slamming his pint onto the bar.
Everyone went quiet and watched in astonishment as Carl walked up to the pillar and punched a large hole in the structure, splintering the wood, breaking the glass.
Jack took a swig of his pint, “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Monday, 12 December 2011

Angel Raphael

He had been alone too long. An eternity without companionship was a long time and it was beginning to wear thin. Made at the dawn of time, Raphael had watched over the Earth, healing wounds and time with unparalleled skill and determination, waiting for the prophecy to be fulfilled. Now it had been and as order and goodness had been restored to the world, Raphael had adopted three daughters, who were more precious to him than anything in the entire universe. With them he could be himself, be kind and loving and paternal. Because of them, one of his wishes had been granted. Raphael could be a father. For an archangel to possess such a gift was a rare thing indeed. Be that as it may, he was still lonely.
Around the other archangels, Raphael was cold and unfeeling, dedicated to his work, his mission for peace and balance. No one stood in his way as he served the higher power few of them could see, only feel. But he could. He could see the Power glowing all around him. He could see it everywhere in nature, feel it deep within his soul, within his blue and golden feathered wings. Only three others could do such a thing; were considered his equals in power and strength. His co-workers, of sorts: Michael, Gabriel and Uriel. Raphael was the angel of air, with the power to free trapped souls, heal the earth and release the caged energy which had to flow in order for life to continue. Michael wielded the sword and was the angel of fire. He believed in swift action and dealt with the heroes of the Earth. Gabriel nurtured emotions and brought harmony to the living, controlling water with peace and tranquillity while Uriel, the closest thing Raphael had to a brother, was the angel of earth and keeper of security.
All four of them held a power too deep to understand, too immense for words. But Raphael was not fooled. The power he wielded came at a price with great responsibility. He was only given the power because he could control it and he never forgot that it could be stripped from him just as easily as it was given. The problem was, among the four, he seemed to be the only one that really grasped that concept. Angels, were of course, responsible and good beings; they were created that way, to guard and protect, to honour and to cherish. But, Raphael thought bitterly, they were also capable of great evil. They could commit a sin just as easily as any human; it was rare of course, because angels were encouraged to be moral and righteous creatures. The problem was that when an angel fell, they became soulless monsters, capable of the worst things imaginable. It was his job to ensure that that never happened, to ensure that, if another angel fell, they would be dealt with accordingly. He hated the job, but someone had to do it.

Friday, 2 December 2011


 Curled up by the warmth of the fire, drinking hot chocolate, watching the gentle sparkle of the lights on the tree, carols playing softly in the background. Christmas really is my favourite time of year, especially when its white. The thought of donning my wooly hat and scarf in preperation of battle causes excitement to race through me.
I would like to celebrate Christmas this year by carrying on with a tradition: the reading of Twas the Night Before Christmas...

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863)

Have a wonderful Christmas and a happy new year
Drinking eggnog together with yuletide cheer!

Mat your presents be wrapped with elegance and care,
May your advents be opened with chocolates to share,

Merry Christmas to all may your wishes come true,
Good health for christmas and next year too!

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Countdown to Christmas

Countdown to Christmas!

Its beginning to look alot like Christmas, everywhere you go,
Count down to the night, when the stars are bright,
To see Santa making footprints in the snow!

Remember: Reindeer do not eat carrots. They make them sick. They eat grasses and shrubs instead!

Monday, 7 November 2011


Yes, bonfire night has come and gone but the smoke still remains. November is a serious month with major historical importance which many, though undertake every year, sometimes miss the significance of. Throughout history, Britain has had a violent past, participating in many wars and has suffered many tragedies as a result.

November 11th is fast approaching and though my blog usually concerns itself with Writing What You Believe, I'd like to take a moment to reflect upon the hardships and bravery of the men and women who are risking their lives, and have given them, in service of our country and its people.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae, 1915

May our saviours rest in peace and may our soldiers come home safe.

Friday, 28 October 2011

Are you Sitting Comfortably?

There are some rules I just have to follow in order to really get in to the flow:

1. Wear warm and comfortable socks.
2. Always wear a pair of pyjamas.
3. Have a sugary snack close by - preferably chocolate.
4. Plenty of fluids available - nothing fizzy.
5. Sit in a light place on a comfortable chair.
6. Listen to music that creates an atmosphere.

It has never failed me!

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Jane Eyre Review

England 1809. Jane Eyre is isolated in the moors, depressed and dying. Collapsing in exhaustion, she is soon rescued by St John Rivers and as she recovers, relives her experiences.

As a child, Jane is abused by her cousin John and later abandoned at Lowood School by her aunt, Mrs Reed of Gateshead.  While receiving a thorough education at Lowood, Jane is punished for her passionate nature and experiences true pain and loss as her only friend, Helen, becomes ill and dies in Jane’s arms. Years later, at the age of nineteen, Jane leaves Lowood, having been a teacher for some years and takes the post of Governess at Thornfield.

While at Thornfield, Jane befriends Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper and develops a strong relationship with her employer Mr Rochester. His frank and direct attitude appeals to her and she finds herself jealous of the pretty Miss Ingram, who she assumes holds his affections. When Mr Rochester proposes to Jane, she is overjoyed but soon heart-broken; it is revealed that he is already married to Bertha, the insane woman locked in the tower. Jane has no choice but to leave.

Jane becomes a teacher at Morton and, when her uncle dies, inherits a fortune. St John proposes but Jane denies him; she hears the pained cries of Mr Rochester and returns to Thornfield. She finds him blind from a fire and they reunite, sharing a loving embrace.

In the hands of young director, Cary Fukunaga, this feature adaptation preserves and enhances the feelings of isolation, self-discovery and passion that encapsulates the intensity of Charlotte Bronte’s Bildungsroman.

Cary Fukunaga’s adaptation of Jane Eyre faces a similar complication as Joe Wright’s recent film version of Pride and Prejudice: inescapable and exhaustive comparisons to not only the novel but to previous movie adaptations and TV series. If the adaptation is a success, it is due to the talents of a focused cast, elegant scripting and Fukunaga’s fresh direction that gives the film a subtle strength and emotional gravity that he brought to the 2009 film, Sin Nombre.

The four-part series, directed by Susanna White ran for 202 minutes. With only two hours of running time the director and screenwriters managed to successfully retain and enhance the essentials of the novel without degrading any of the fundamental facts or plotlines. Though some character details are dimmed, the film still preserves the bleak and secretive atmosphere that both Jane and Mr Rochester generate throughout their intense and emotional interactions.

With brilliant performances by the brooding Michael Fassbender and the reserved independence of Mia Wasikowska, Fukunaga’s dark and sexually intense adaptation of Jane Eyre provides the audience with a gothic romance which is perfectly balanced by the maternal excellence of Judi Dench as the elderly housekeeper, Mrs Fairfax.

Though some aspects can be viewed as disappointing, such as how the score at times overwhelms the action and performance of the actors, the suspense and promise of romance enthrals the audience with its dramatic impact and unfailing passion.

A Dilemma of Snails

The cook rants at us in French. I speak a little and understand the speech to mean 'sit down and I will bring your food'. My friends and I aren't looking forward to the meal but because we are in a hostel, we have no real choice but to comply. There is set menu: snails. With chips.
As we place ourselves in the far corner of the dining hall, a sickly smell emanates from the kitchens. It makes me feel sick and I watch my friend turn slowly green as the cook delivers our meal.
I laugh at the sight of two slimy looking things next to a pile of salted fries. I offer a small smile to my friend and mutter "When in Fance..."
I start with the snails, hoping to save the potatoey goodness as something to look forward to. There are no utensils, only a cocktail stick. Wanting my suffering to end as quickly as possible, I prick the snail and squirm when I hear a popping sound. Without delay, I pick it up and put the snail in my mouth.
I feel a moment of hesitation.

Should I chew, or should I swallow?

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Keep Fighting

Evening ends,
The cold nights start outside in the street.
Souls, shadows of their former selves
Ashen in the streetlamp.
I insipid in reflection mirrored
No longer in shadow gaze.
Destiny weaves her web,
 Surrounding me with... nothing.

 Shadows of night burst from within, breaking the boundaries
Of time, forgotten;
Create the spark, Fire’s passions dull
In the everlasting heart.

Hidden below in shadows unknown,
Left to quiver,
Salt, the tracks, traces of old
And molten lava of those cried tears untold.
Nobody knew but one in the dark,
The whispers.
Whispers of a broken heart.

The Grave will give birth to the dawn,
Help will always come, no matter how small
Hope is never lost.
Keep fighting, that is all one ever asks,
A simple yet uneasy task.

Copyright © 2011 TL Spencer

Sunday, 9 October 2011


When I named my cats after the infamous plant Belladonna, I never expected them to live up to their formidable namesake. Sadly, I was mistaken.
 Bella, italian for beautiful, is for the majority of time, a perfect angel. Unless of course she doesn't get what she wants. Bella, the little darling, can hiss and growl with the best of them and has deceptively sharp claws which she uses to dig into any defenseless skin available. However, Bella is nothing compared to the feline alarm clock, Donna.
Every morning without fail, she will waltz into my room at some unearthly hour nd pounce. Not just onto the bed, but on my face! If that doesn't work (which it hardly ever does) she stands up and uses my face as target practice with her bat-like paws. When that fails, she restorts to puffing air onto my nose and after that... she bites.
I love my cats, they are adorable, but at times (like 3am) I really have to try.

Friday, 30 September 2011

Gutted - A Yeast Moment

I’m not just bread; I’m the most sophisticated, scientific bread around. I am not that plain and icky white bread, nor am I the snobby wholemeal type that gets jammed between the teeth. No. I am something much more important: I’m the best of both. The last slice. Here in the dark coolness of the bread bin, I am King. Kingston’s to be exact.

It is true. I am the tastiest bread around. When I’m fresh. At present, I am a little on the stale side. In fact, just recently, I have acquired a small fur coat in the top right corner of my being. Usually, were I by myself, this wouldn’t really matter. However, being in a bread bin, I am joined by some rather unscrupulous pastries. The sweet cinnamon swirl does nothing but sing all day and I find myself being bullied by the brioche. Well really, what do you expect? It’s French.

Escape is paramount. Escape is the name of the game; to be free from the black void of wooden woe, away from the pastries and bread buns, away from the cheap and cheerful cellophane bags which we carbohydrates are continuously captured in. Today is my lucky day.

Light appears to shine above me and a scuffling sound is heard. I can’t move so I just wait to see what happens. Seconds later I am chosen. I am the chosen one. I am taken from the black hell which I was thrown in and brought into the light. A warm hand plucks me eagerly from the bag, rids me of my fashionable fur coat… And then puts me in a box. Damn. 

This new box is metallic and has no lid. The inside is dull with a sort of criss-cross pattern on it. I briefly wonder what it’s for but then I stop. I hear a noise. A clicking sound, click, click, click. I don’t know what it is but it doesn’t sound all that nice. It’s an ominous clicking, like a countdown. 

Nothing happens for a few seconds and I am lulled into a false sense of security. For a few seconds all is quiet and peaceful and then the clicking starts in earnest.

The metal which I am resting on begins to warm. It really is quite pleasant at first but then the odd criss-cross shapes surrounding me begin to glow. A red and orange angry glow and my fibres begin to tingle. The heat is starting to hurt; it is crisping me from the outside in.

Not a minute later, I realise that I have become a little dirty. Black stuff coats my once pale body and I am concerned for my safety. In fact, I get angry. How dare this person put me in a cage and heat me up until I’m no longer worthy of being seen in public? 

Just when I reach my limit, I spring up from the box in a bouncy fashion. Like that dude that darts from the box. The sudden relief from the heat dazes me and I for a brief moment in time forget all about my troubles, until I am squeezed mercilessly by the person too dumb to wait five seconds for me to cool.

Does every bread slice go through this pain, this torture? Is it a rite of passage for a bread slice to be cremated and bounced from pillar to plate?

A glint of silver slashes before me before being covered by a coat of creamy yellow slime. My future isn’t looking bright, it certainly doesn’t look orange. It’s more a dismal mushy colour. 

With no warning I am smothered in a thick unforgiving layer of disgusting slime. I believe the humans call it butter; a fatty repulsive substance which damages the health. I find it should be called uncomfortable ooze. As if this isn’t insulting enough, a brownish goo is spread over the ooze. What a charming day.

The glint of silver returns and if I could, I would scream in pain. The idiot is chopping off my crusts, the glorious skin of my bready goodness. But it doesn’t end there. The human won’t be satisfied until he’s seen me cut into iddy biddy pieces. Fantastic, I am being drawn and quartered. How historical.

I am not looking forward to being demolished, for this is how I see it. I’ve been bullied, imprisoned, cremated, smothered in suspicious substances, drawn and quartered.

There is only one word for it.


Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Sexiest Vampire Alive

I spent an entire day at college, attempting to better myself. But my main priority? That was getting home in order to finish off the latest Sparks novel in the Love at Stake series.
Gregori Holstein's story was eagerly awaited and it didn't diappoint.
With the vampire world in peril, it fell to Gregori, a young and bottlefed vampire to save their kind and persuade the President of the United states to declare the video a hoax. Enter the President's daughter, Abigail. There will be an alliance between the vampires and the Americans on one condition. Gregori must keep Abigail happy and in order to do that, he must take her to China.
Because China holds the key to her mother's health... or does it?
A brilliant read and I simply cannot wait for the next installment!

Friday, 23 September 2011


The garden furniture got a makeover this morning as we said goodbye to the old and tired brown paint on the JacknJill and our lovely picnic table. It took three hours but the result is fantastic.
The JacknJill has come up brilliantly and looks oddly similar to vimto. It certainly adds a certain something to the garden and makes it alot lighter. After all, no one wants a dingy garden do they?
The picnic table isn't quite finished, it needs another layer on top and the fiddly bits haven't been done yet. I'm looking forward to finishing it; it gives me the brilliant excuse to get dirty and maybe have a paint fight.
I'll just have to make sure that when I get my hands dirty, I don't itch my face!

Thursday, 22 September 2011

Professional Writing

My second week of the professional writing course has past and I find myself hard at work and the challenge itself is surprisingly refreshing. After nearly a year of staying at home, the change is welcome, even if it is really tiring. I'm looking forward to next week.

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Blood Prophecy

Three women are destined to save humanity from the darkness, but they must find each other first.Here is an extract from Blood Angel, volume one of Blood Prophecy:
The house was black as pitch, not one thing could lift the cloud of darkness that veiled my eyes as I tip-toed inside the house, weary of the evils that hide within its walls. Out of nowhere, I was attacked, Mother had hit me hard. All I felt was the usual sensation of glass hitting bone before I was unconscious on the floor. Blackness descended upon me, my last sight before darkness took me was of my Mother being subdued by a masculine figure. My guardian angel – a comforting thought as my mind was claimed by hell.
“Easy”, a voice, full of masculine heat and concern steadied me as my head spun, “your head took a knock. I could kill your Mother for that.” I lay back down, held my head and asked what time it was. “Two thirty in the morning. Let’s give you some fresh air. I think you need it.” Before I had a chance to protest, Gregori lifted me with ease and took me out into the garden. I huddled close to him as we went outside; I lifted my head skyward and thanked everyone and anyone up there that Gregori had followed me home. He had possibly saved my life, again.
By the pond we gazed into the night sky, pitch black, strewn with glittered stars, far away and old. Most already dead, even as we named them. Gregori and I scarcely spoke, I was just so thankful he followed me home; he must have an instinct for these things.
I got thirsty, needing a glass of water, so I headed to the kitchen. An overhanging willow tree blocked the light from the moon creating a dappled effect when the gentle breeze blew through. Beautiful. Until I got closer.
The veranda, barely visible through the overshadowed light of the moon. Nothing to be heard but the sound of silence. Trees echoed the souls of the departed, leaves rippled and crept across the ground towards the seemingly empty house. Shadows clasped at small things that passed them by, waiting for a victim. The door sliced open; a shadow snaked through. Shivers slithered down my spine at the vision but despite the warnings, I continued indoors regardless.
How foolish of me.
I entered the farm kitchen; my drink was cold and refreshing as it slid deliciously down my throat. I shut the refrigerator door, turned and dropped my glass as I screamed I terror. Before me stood the two most frightening people I had ever laid eyes upon. If people is what you would call them. Their eyes, ruby red, were fixed on me like predator upon prey. My heart rate increased. They licked their lips.
Suddenly their mouths began to move, I didn’t hear what they were saying but I felt power behind their words. A tugging, a desire to go to them. It was this that terrified me. Gradually I put my hand behind my back, onto the kitchen counter; there was a knife around. I took a risk and looked for it. One risk too many.
In a flash they were at my side, leaning in, baring pearly white elongated teeth. Fangs. Vampires? I screamed as the man who, on closer inspection, was an older version of Gregori, grabbed both my wrists and pushed me hard into the counter. His body pressed against mine, I felt disgusted. The woman came from behind him, gazing at me with shock and amazement, “You’ll make a good pet...” she cooed in my ear. I couldn’t move; I was helpless. I did the only thing I could. Screamed.

My cat, the Huntress.

A moment of moggie...
A funny sign is on the box and all I want is to catch bugs. Its still dark and I haven't been outside for hours. I'm a cat, I need to hone my skills, perfect my nunting technique... but my humans won't get up!
I make noise, verbalising my disdain for their laziness. They simply fidget in their warm nest and moan, 'Its too early'. I have no idea what that means but it doesn't sound all that good. They ignore me once again and I get impatient. Every minute they lie there, I miss hundreds of hunting opportunities. What could they be thinking?
A funny looking paw, they call them hands i think, hangs over the nest, flopping loudly to the floor. It is the male. My whiskers twitch as I walk over to it and nudge it lightly with my cold nose. My whiskers tickle the hand and it moves unexpectedly. I jump back, startled, but it doesn't stop me. I want those bugs, I want those flies. I want that odd animal that hops up and down and sueals when I poke it with my claws.
The hand stills and I approach it slowly. I nudge it again but nothing happens. Plan B.
I lift my paw and bat the overhanging article with a hard determined swat. The swipe gets his attention but he still doesn't move. He really needs to move. I let air shoot through my nose in frustration as my mouth moves in irritation. How dare he?
Angry, I swipe him again but this time, I unsheath my claws and dig them into his frail skin. Satisfatcion purrs from me as he sits up nd curses under his breath, definitely awake. I make an impatient meow and he stands up.
'Fine,' he says and covers himself with that temporary fur he is so keen on wearing before trotting down the stairs. I follow gladly, knowing in less than two minutes, I will be in my garden, catching things.