The difference between Mr Phelps and me

Those who do know me a little would still sometimes be surprised that I could do things, which most people would consider most boring, such as weeding and chipping wood, for hours and hours.
Actually it surprises me, myself, now and then as I am pretty sure I could happily live without.
So, why would I do it, then? It has to be done.
Why would it - sometimes - take hours? Simply because I am too lazy doing it every day. :)

Anyway, while being busy with hunting weeds, I can let my thoughts travel, contemplate, connect dots, dive into the ocean of my fantasy or even stop thinking; not seldom out of this nothing an idea would appear.
In any case, after hours I can see the result of what my hands have been doing. :)

Exactly this is why Sunday evening I wrote: This month ended like it began - august.

And I added: More in September.

So here's for a start. Saturday, after a marvellous breakfast I got struck by the idea of weeding between the cracks on the courtyard (if that's the proper word).
About 90 minutes later, returning with the empty bucket I thought: This is, again, one of those things, once they are done noone would notice except of oneself.
People / Neighbours rather tend to take notice of things which 'ought to be done', would you agree? :)
Thus, I took my cellular and - a photo.

And another 90 minutes later a second one.

Done. :)

Nothing special. Still I felt pleased.

- Wow, like new, Sean!

Mrs. J. who had been busy with planting a new row strawberries smiled. I smiled. A hug, some kisses, eyes sparkling ...

- Seems what I've done is better than winning gold-medals in Doping.

- Of course, Sean. :) And surely you will tell me why.

- Well, did you see the gentleman with the speed-yogurt in his fridge ever showing joy and happiness in the seconds after his triumphs?

- Usaine Bolt?

- No, the water-bolt, Mr. Phelps.

- Ah, no. If one had not seen him winning in world-record time, one could have thought he had become eightth.

Later, while digging up potatoes Mr. Phelps reappeared in my mind. Probably eight terrible years lying ahead. And any day 'they' may find the magic ingredience in his probes.
Probably? How political incorrect. Perhaps. Perhaps! Presumption of innocence. Ha ha, what a curiously shaped potatoe. I picked it up, showed it Mrs. J., and both we laughed.