Walking The Dog

Beware of ranting ahead. Sometimes something just has to be said. The mock orange -  a handsome, richly scented, majestic garden shrub, topped with a prolific exuberance of frothing white hair  ... oops! ... flowers, that misleads with aplomb, pretending to be something that it isn't, as it masquerades as an orange. From gardening to referendum in one giant mocking leap. For anyone who knows me, this will come as a surprise, as I am not known for my political prowess or astute deliberation on current affairs. However, in the light of current circumstances and because it is perhaps, sadly, unlikely that Ruth Alexander and Andrea Leadsome will pull together a united bid to beat Boris - I propose the establishment of a new political 'party'. There! Surprised? Indeed; perhaps, surprised that I know who Ruth and Andrea are. Okay, so you know I'm not serious. But ... indulge me. There will be a point to this. For a moment assume that at the birth of this resolut...

Dare I whisper that the sun is shining and summer is skipping into view. * Or with those fourteen words have I condemned us to shivering defiantly in our seasonally-compatible if weather-inappropriate clothes braced on holiday against summer winds and showers of rain? Please note I didn't conjure up gales and torrents - I might be a bit of a pessimist but that would be glugging down the entire glass rather than leaving it half empty. To be a pessimist is, after all, to be pleasantly surprised when things turn out better. Perhaps the summer will too. Turn out better I mean. I hope so. So does Bertie Baggins. Or is he laughing at me? - 'Thinks it's possible to jinx the weather now? Definitely lost the plot.' Or am I anthropomorphising a wee bit too much? I mean: dogs don't really smile - do they? Or look disdainful ... Narrowed eyes, mouth shut in a bored harrumph. Why? ... ... 'Gardening! Again!! You said it would be how long before o...

I love this time of year. All apart from the low lying sun that makes driving an eye-watering nightmare. The days are getting longer. The sun blissfully higher. And the garden is waking from its winter slumbers. Some shrubs are busily, early flowering, like this osmanthus, covered in tiny white trumpets - It's a season full of promise - the daffodils will soon burst yellow, their dancing heads heralding spring. And, annually, reminding me of my Scottish 'Gran' who - bucket in one hand, scissors in the other - would decapitate all the spent, crisply-browning blooms. She was small and bent and dainty in her sensible shoes. This was her job. Even when slow and frail. And she did it every spring to ensure healthy blooms the following year. In a few weeks, I'll persuade Littlest (bribe her, probably) that it's a job perfect for her. I'll give her an old pair of gardening scissors and tell her about my Gran, whom she never met. Apart from the daffodils, t...