It was a warm day today, for December. In my garden (I got out for ten minutes before dusk, Jarvis Cocker's Sunday Service playing on the radio and a yellowish smear of light in the western sky) there were tender Fuchsias still flowering; the Confetti Bush, stalwart of the Southern Hemisphere, had a spatter of pink, honey-scented flowers; Marguerites, my unkillable invaders, were in cheerful flower; and there were flowers on the geraniums both inside and outside the greenhouse. So I went in search of Broad Bean seeds because a warm day in winter is the perfect moment to get stuff down.
I didn't have any broad beans. There weren't any bulbs waiting to be sown. It's been a disorganised autumn. So I rearranged my pots, pulling them into more sheltered spaces, filing a few in the greenhouse. I found one last chilli on a frost-browned bush.
The patio was thick with willow leaves. The sky was dark. The temperature was falling.
Time to go inside and dress a Christmas tree.
I didn't have any broad beans. There weren't any bulbs waiting to be sown. It's been a disorganised autumn. So I rearranged my pots, pulling them into more sheltered spaces, filing a few in the greenhouse. I found one last chilli on a frost-browned bush.
The patio was thick with willow leaves. The sky was dark. The temperature was falling.
Time to go inside and dress a Christmas tree.
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