In the centre of town, the buildings are sprouting. In the rich moist pollution-fertillised muck that gathers in every crack and crease, in the turds of pigeon and jackdaw, the seeds and scraps that have blown in on the wind from the untended banks and sidings, from the municipal planting and formal gardens, from the private spaces and public places, have put out happy roots and exploded into unruly life.
This ridiculously blousy building, veiled in anti-pigeon nets, and covered in fancy carvings, is doing particularly well, with a smart, glossy-leaved shrub sprouting from a high balcony, and the usual buddleia sprouting from a drainpipe. All along every ridge and wiggle, weeds are sprouting; happy sow thistles and dandelions. The anti-pigeon spikes create a punkish echo of the plants; nature is unwelcome here, but nevertheless invading; uprising; over-taking.
This time of the year, you turn your back on a plant, it grows. Everything disappears under wild green tumbles, precious plantlets smothered under wild swathes of geraniums and raspberries and passion flowers and hollyhocks and ivy and vines.
Or, at any rate, that's whatt's going on out back here, right now.