My garden looks lovely at the moment – in parts. The irises have come out, but anything that needs a bit of sun on its leaves to break out into flower is staying defiantly furled. Not that I blame any of the poor, chilly plants. I am only looking at the garden out of the window, as it’s sooo perishingly cold. I’m sitting typing in a pashmina and my warmest cardi, probably not looking a vision of beauty as I’m also wearing my furry bedsocks. But it’s the only way. I refuse to put the heating on in June, for goodness’ sake.
It’s quite frustrating to have (mostly) reclaimed the garden from the straggle of trees and weeds that we accidentally bought two years ago, and yet still not be able to enjoy it properly. I’ve even bought garden furniture, especially so we could have some kind of al fresco life. Oh well, I think the foxes are enjoying it. The four new cubs born recently in the wilderness at the back of the house have started wandering about the neighbourhood, so they’re probably enjoying moonlit lie-downs in my nice wicker chairs. The cats are certainly too frightened to go out. And our baby cat (well, he’s nearly 2, but still a baby to us) now as a fresh rip in his ear. The vet said it was unlikely to have been the foxes, as they bite rather than swipe. A relief, as rabies would not be fun. But we are all looking rather suspiciously at senior cat Mme Bovary. She sits buffing her razor-sharp claws, an innocent smile on her white whiskers. Tsk.