Off to the allotment today to plant Little Gem lettuces. They are bursting out of their seed tray. At the end of the street, the trees are greening up nicely, with crab apples in flower.
And little faces in the grass.
Vale House, a pensioners' ghetto, with its new improved windows, has been painted, and looks worse than ever. Before (blue/grey):
And today (bland sand). The scaffolding is still up, because all the new windows must now be professionally cleaned, being spattered with paint. What project management, I hear you ask?
Nearing the allotment gate, a robin sits on the fence, ignoring the scruffy barbed wire. At the foot of the fence is the smelliest manure ever, donated by the local stables. I've spared you the sight.
The robin is waiting for the dog and I to pass, so he can get on with picking through it.
The allotments are taking shape. Between us, we have the national collection of dandelions.
I just love the ramshackleness of it down here; it resists gentrification and order, yet there are some wonderful gardeners amongst us. I don't include myself in this category.
Chris's little apple tree is in flower.
Alan's three tulips are shining out.
My rhubarb is suddenly bursting with vim and vigour.
I plant the lettuces, cover them with a cloche, feed the roses, dig another bed, wrestling with the tough roots of couch grass, and pull an armful of rhubarb. I have brought a sharp knife from home, as the one in the shed is blunt. And predictably, I cut my finger while trimming and bleed dramatically onto the large leaves.
My back tells me it's time to go home. On the way back to the gate, old Tommy tells me delightedly that he spotted five swallows the other day. Another hopeful sign.
Today's villain sees me looking at him from the kitchen window as I wash rhubarb stems. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.