I spent the day Monday marking out vegetable beds, ripping up the sod, which, being mostly clover, was hurculean task, and running our Mantis through the wet clay.
The Mantis is not exactly a roto-tiller. It is more of a cultivator. It chops the soil into tiny crumbs, but doesn’t remove huge chunks from the ground while doing so. The good of this is that the bed one Mantises is fluffy and welcoming to new plants. The bad is that wet clay chopping is a very. Slow. Process.
Fortunately, the sun, after a weekend of thunder and downpour, was still concealed behind thin clouds, keeping the temperatures livable. Now, the UV light, that just danced right through the clouds, and I was busy thinking about bed layout and wet clay, so didn’t concern myself with it.
Until I was a lovely shade of pink. Ouch. Ouchouchouch. Idiot.
Most of the discomfort is past; I stayed well-hydrated, treated the burns topically and systemically, kept well-nourished, well-lotioned, and well-hydrated the past two days, and feel nearly normal again. For the past 48 hours, though, I have been stumbling about at mental half-mast, poisoned by my overcooked flesh.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry