Suddenly the town is full of people clutching maps and estate agent's brochures; hanging baskets have been hung, and it's just fine to be sitting indoors with a thin t.shirt on, rather than some vile matted old jumper.
In the autumn, I will have a cull of all fetid winter wear — really, this year they will go . . . maybe. It has to be done while the weather is still warm otherwise at the first hint of cold, I'll be seeking shelter in something indescribably awful, but, oh so comforting. This winter my second skin was a purple jumper from 'Emmaüs'; actually I think it was last year's too. I don't even like purple, not on me anyway; some people look great in it — hi Pen. There's just something about the wool mixture, the length of the sleeves, the perfect draught prevention shape. I've put it in the 'gardening cupboard and only time and weather will tell if it re-emerges or not.
Anyway . . . I'm sitting here is a vest top before tackling various gardening jobs, including dead-heading the roses. It's been a good year for them (wasn't that an Elvis Costello song?) huge, bursting with colour and fragrance. Here's a couple of photos, but it's difficult to capture the pure sumptuance of them. I know that's not a word, but I rather like it.