Here we are in that irresistible space between Spring and Summer. Everything smells good. The garden is a sea of green; the trees have shed their blossoms all over the table we used to sometimes eat dinner at on a hot night in August. We haven't maintained the garden very well - the grass is knee high- but then, we haven't maintained much else very well either. I have this sense that I'm sprinting to catch up with myself. We did the dishes just the other day, but now the cups of stale tea and dirty bowls have piled up again, although neither of us has been in the house much these past few weeks. Even my bicycle, yesterday, couldn't cope; halfway down the High Street the chain fell off and I walked the rest of the way home with it limping along beside me.
I was in heels and the going was slow, but maybe this is good.