It's always something

That was the title of the immortal (I wish) Gilda Radner's auto- biography, and it's been the coda to every moment back here so far.

Arrived Saturday. A little general cleaning, starting to unpack.

Sunday, finish unpacking and stowing. Then Gregory comes by to introduce us to Patrick, who's new on the island. Then Robert brings a bunch back from bingo: Gregory, Patrick, Dwight, Michael, Mitch, Otter and Ike, and an impromptu pool party breaks out. . . .

Monday, tend to the gardens in front: rip out the diseased (and sole surviving) hibiscus, trim associated diseased parts from the ixoras, prune the palms, rake, sweep. . . .

Tuesday, pressure-wash the porch (hence that clean-railing photo) after spritzing it with a bleach solution to kill the mildew, and then attack the mildew that invaded the car we left here. (We noticed damp carpets last year; this year they were awash.) Then Jeffrey went by, walking Boo-Boo and Bear (the vicar's in New York), and dropped in for a cold beverage or two. . . .

Today, it's trimming up the buttonwoods on the back deck, tying up the underplantings. . . .

And all of this between rainstorms, which make the humidity a bit much when the temperature's 90 or so.

I wish Robert would get the hell back to bridge.